#its a terminal illness and a full time job

[garashir]

[slytherinshua]

DEATH'S LONGING

genre. angst. the tiniest most minuscule sprinkle of fluff. flower language never gets old in fics </3. warnings. major character death. reader has a terminal illness (not mentioned what it is) and is hospitalized. just general angst... not proofread. pairing. yujin x fem!reader. wc. 1.7k. request. requested by 🪩 anon from the prompt list but i did slightly change the prompts to fit the story better. a/n. i'm very sorry for this... i didn't mean it for be this angsty.... but don't blame me blame disco for this mess. divider by @/saradika.

It was lonely in the hospital. Apart from mealtimes and daily checkups, the nurses didn’t have time to keep you company in the room. You knew you were running out of time. You didn’t blame Nurse Park or Nurse Jung for not wanting to spend extra time on their shift talking to the girl who would be dead in a couple weeks. You were sick of being a burden to people. Maybe if your terminal illness would just hurry up and do its job, you wouldn’t have to cause mental stress for other people.

You had been offered euthanasia, a rare occurrence in such a small town hospital. But people pitied you, or maybe they just wanted you gone as fast as possible. You declined it, despite knowing that you would be in more pain. You were still waiting. Still waiting for him one last time.

Yujin’s face was stained with tears. He looked out of the train window, wishing that there was any way to get there faster. He just wanted to see you. He didn’t want to be late; he wouldn’t let himself be late. He was the only person you had left, and if there was one thing he was determined to do, it was to be with you for as long as possible.

He had received countless letters from the hospital, each with updates on your condition. He couldn’t bring himself to read most of them. He didn’t want to accept such a cruel fate. Why were you the one who had to suffer?

You had always been close to Yujin, supporting him in everything he aspired to do. Growing up in a small town, the community was tightly knit. Everyone knew that you and Yujin were inseparable. It was easy to tell that there were romantic feelings involved, especially as you grew older.

But unlike Yujin’s future, which was bright and full of endless possibilities, you didn’t have a future. Yujin’s dream had always been to move to a big city, one with skyscrapers reaching to the sky, one bustling with life and innovation. You were never allowed the privilege to dream as big or bright. It always seemed pointless.

But there was one thing you did allow yourself to dream of. One thing that you had always wanted. To be loved, to be in love. You wanted the same thing all the leads in books or movies had. But now as you lay in your hospital bed, staring at the ceiling and the artificial lights that were way too old to shine bright, you were starting to accept that even that small dream would die with you.

“I wish I could just see him one last time…” You gulped. The small plea was heard by no one, and you were once again reminded that you were so, so alone.

Yujin was breathless when he reached the front desk. The train station was a few miles from the hospital, and he had decided that running would be faster than waiting for a ride. Usually he would get tired from such a long distance, but the adrenaline and desperation to see you allowed him to sprint all the way to the small hospital.

The lady at the front desk, who recognized Yujin from a sprained ankle when he was 5, struggled to understand his hurried and stuttered speech. But, she eventually figured out that he was looking for your room, and directed him to the second floor.

He ignored the signs stating that running was not allowed in the halls, rushing past the elderly patients whose eyes widened at the young boy. All Yujin cared about was getting to you as fast as possible, and when he finally reached room 204, his heart finally stopped racing as fast. 

He took a second to breathe, wiping the sweat that had collected on his forehead. He wanted to look composed and calm in front of you, as if none of this actually affected him. Although, maintaining that in front of you would almost certainly fail. It had already been over a year since he had seen you. Letters and short phone calls were the only contact he had been surviving off since he first left for the city.

He slid the door open and his eyes met yours. Like a habit, your face brightened, and you opened your arms for Yujin to run into. It all felt like the last missing puzzle piece coming together. You held him as tightly as possible, as if he was the one who was going to disappear instead of you. Sobs wracked your body, your one wish allowed to live on for a few moments longer. The boy you loved was in your arms once again; you had survived long enough to see him one last time.

“I thought I wouldn’t make it in time.” Yujin whispered breathlessly, tightening his grip around you as well. He wanted to memorise everything about the feeling before it was too late, so that the last memory he would have of you would be pleasant.

“I waited for you. I would’ve waited longer if I had to.” You told him earnestly.

Yujin’s eyes stung, and he tried to blink back the tears. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been for you. Alone, faced with nothing but the heartbreaking reality that was dealt to you. He felt guilty for wanting to chase his dream, for not staying by your side for as long as he could. 

“I had to see you again before I said goodbye.” You whispered, face buried in his neck, relief present in your every movement, every breath, every word. Now that you were in Yujin’s arms, death’s sting couldn’t harm you anymore. You weren’t afraid. Although you still wished for more time, you knew it was impossible. So, instead, you were beyond grateful that at least your final moments weren’t spent alone.

Yujin shook his head, unable to hold back his tears for any longer, “I’m too scared to lose you. Don’t die, please, not yet. I can’t let you go yet.” He stuttered, brain panicked as he held onto you tighter, as if he could give some of his life to you. 

You pulled back, wanting to see his face and not just hear his voice. A smile graced your features when you met his eyes. Although he was crying, nose and eyes red and cheeks stained with tears, he still looked beautiful. You cupped his face, wiping one of his tears with your thumb. His lip quivered, and he tried to choke down the wave of emotions that was threatening to hit him. He sniffed, wiping his face of the rest of the tears and clasping your hands with his.

His heart constricted feeling how cold they were. The sight of the IV you were hooked up to, distributing pain medication. His gaze drifted to the monitors to the side of your bed, and the small table in the room. He saw his letters still open on the top of it, neatly ordered from first to last. Even the envelopes were carefully preserved by you. He looked back to you, soaking in your features. You just smiled at him.

“How can you still smile?” He wondered aloud, both awed and dismayed at the sight.

“You came back to me. How could I not be happy?” Your eyes crinkled as your smile brightened, a feeling of pure happiness filling your body, replacing the old feelings of hopelessness and loneliness. You touched his cheek again, tracing the line of his cheekbone and down to his jaw. You had only been away from each other for a year, yet he had still managed to grow more handsome than ever before.

“I wanted to tell you something.” You said softly, immediately grabbing Yujin’s full attention. “Thank you.” It was such a simple statement, just 2 words, yet it felt like Yujin’s heart was completely shattered by them.

You continued with a breath, “Thank you for staying by my side. And thank you for loving me even though you knew you would have to say goodbye. And… thank you for coming back to me.” 

Yujin closed his eyes, kissing the palm of your hand. It was enough to convey his thanks back to you, as well as another message. I love you. He knew if he said anything, he would probably end up crying again. It was better to stay silent, basking in the last moments he would ever have with you.

“I want to kiss you.”

Yujin opened his eyes again, eyes softening as he heard your request. He nodded softly, leaning forward to a distance where you could reach his lips. Your touch was tentative and gentle. It was your first kiss, and you knew it would be your last as well. At least, you were fortunate enough to share it with the boy who stole your heart.

It seemed like you both knew that time was running out. As you rested your head back on the pillows and Yujin swallowed back painful emotions, you were once again faced with your unavoidable end.

“I love you. I know it was hard to wait for me… but you can rest now. You don’t have to fight it anymore. I love you, and that’s why I’m letting you go.” Yujin said softly, mustering a smile for you. Just for you.

“I love you.”

It had been months since he confessed those words to you, yet they seemed to follow him wherever he went. Your hospital bed was long empty. The sheets had been neatly folded on the foot of the bed and the room sanitised, the last traces of you eradicated. It no longer held your possession, nor did it smell like you. But Yujin could still feel your presence somehow. 

Not just in the hospital, but whenever he visited the columbarium just to stare at your picture again. He brought you flowers every time; pink camellias, which had been your favourite since childhood. They represented longing.

Longing.

That was the feeling that stayed with Yujin every day. It was bitter at times, sweet at others. Memories of you played in his mind and made him smile or laugh. The thought of never seeing you again bruised his heart. But he kept going for you, who had always believed in him, always knowing he was capable of anything he put his mind to. While you were still beside him, your words kept him motivated. Now, your memory served the same purpose. Even when you were gone, you were still with him. Not even death could shadow your love for him.

↳ zerobaseone taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @okshu,, @chewryy,, @haecien,, @sobun1est,,

@emmylksblog,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @chenleszone,, @sxmmerberries,,

@talking-saxy,, @cupidslovearrows,, @dimplewonie,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,,

@kristianities,, @kangtaehyunzzz

[thatguylucass]

So I'm obsessed with UF!sans from UnderFell, but the question is why?

(i did fell in pony town so imma sue him as a banner fight me)

Many people in my life have been asking me why i am obsessed with UF!sans, (even at my fucking job lol) specially for who i am. Usually when you think of sans fangirl people think of a little girl (usually white) who is 13 and probably obsessed with the Undertale fandom and most likely does gacha animations and some silly drawings as a beginner artist.

And then... there's me.

I'm a 22 year old, gay, Latino man.

Yeah, i know, i can already hear people calling me terminally online or rotten or something

but no i don't want to fuck the skeleton...

compared to contrary belief.

But i wanted to share on why this hyper fixation came to be, the way's i have reasoned it and why this stuff happens, so uh... Buckle on my dudes.. bros... or who ever decides to read this (personally i fell like no one will lol) (hehe saw what i did there)

so, i think we all know, if you have seen my blog or by what i draw or for what ever reason.. Yes i am autistic. the number one reason i believe it's because i see him as some sort of hyper fixation, but a part of me thinks its further than that but it could be a valuable reason i suppose.

But truly i think it's because of who exactly UF!sans is. or maybe the way I see him? hmmm I'm not sure, i would have to check the cannon but i will elaborate:

UF!sans grew up in a violent world. If anything a dangerous one where he quite literally had to look and become aggressive to survive. Not only that but inherently Underfell is a dangerous and horrible place to live, after all in that world is "kill or be killed" and to that i related to in an uncanny way.

I grew up in Dominican Republic, i don't only have a rocky background but i have lived in that environment, where you are in a constant state of trying to survive where you can't trust no one. And i assure you it makes family relations rocky.

Think about it. Classic papyrus and sans relation ship they are just silly bros, but in Underfell UF!sans and UF!papyrus at most tolerate each other. Maybe i saw myself in him or maybe a part of me wants to be comforted by someone who understands.

another part, could probably be because his personality is interesting. while he is deadly for sure, he won't be violent unless he has to, or at least from what i have learned. He does knock jokes and is a silly guy even if his looks are quite scary, which is funny cuz most people tell me i look terrifying, but most of the time is cuz I'm Afro-Latino lol.

but idk this feels comforting....

i hope that maybe one day i could actually find someone who understands my pain, but for now i truly feel like this silly skeleton character is giving me that, also he is just fun to draw too.

kind of silly honestly

anyways.

i have a full time job, and go touch grass so if someone dares to call me mentally ill i will uh..

cry probably idk, i don't care that much

you would be surprised the amount of hate asks i get lol

anyways bye

also for the fucker who keeps sending hate at @toxicundernet

fuck you

get a life or go back to reddit, jfc let me be cringe in peace.

[kitmon]

S'That Metal? | Eddie Munson x Fem!Musician!Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: A new neighbor just moved in a door down and Eddie can’t reign in his curiosity.

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things, 2022) x Fem!Musician!Reader

Chapter: 1/? [wc: 6.3]

Part 01

Tags: swearing, Eddie falls and hurts himself (talk of aching pain and soreness), probably some bad guitar talk because I’ve only been playing for a few months, reader is a bit mean but, I mean, she’s totally justified, Eddie's kinda a creep but he has innocent intentions, vague discussion of a parent with terminal illness

Author’s Note: It's here! Finally a full first chapter of S'that Metal? I know it took me literally forever but I hope that despite the long wait you guys will enjoy it. Thank you to my lovely @queenimmadolla for beta reading as always now please enjoy!

Chapter One: S'that Metal?

The sun is hanging low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the tops of the pine trees that decorate the edge of Forest Hills, indigo darkening the east as day gives way to night. Eddie’s van rumbles along the dirt road as he pulls into the lawn, tapping his fingers over the steering wheel while the sweet licks of Saxon’s Graham Oliver blare through the speakers. He flips the ignition off and steps outside, skipping to the front door with a satisfied smile over his lips as he fumbles with his ring of keys.  

Another successful Hellfire session, he thinks to himself as he inserts the right key into the lock. Though the freshman can be rowdy at times, he enjoys their enthusiasm and it makes nights like this, where a devastating blow is dealt to one of his obstacles, all the better, with cheering, celebration, and pats over the shoulder. He couldn’t care less if they destroyed his entire fleet with one critical hit, as long as they were having fun, he was doing his job as Dungeon Master.

Just as he’s about to push the door open with his shoulder, the familiar sound of a whining guitar could be heard nearby. He looks to the trailer situated next to his uncle’s. A moving van has been parked in its lot since yesterday morning and the front lawn, even now, had boxes, empty and full, littering itself. That isn’t what interests him though. It’s the muffled voice of that guitar, piercing the paper thin walls of these shitty trailer homes. 

All the more curious, Eddie pulls the key out of its socket and pockets it in his leather jacket. He takes a few wide steps towards his neighboring trailer, attempting stealth but really only achieving looking like a complete dork. His steps are soft and as he moves closer the sound becomes much more clear. He’s pressing his ear against the side of the mobile home and— is that Whiplash? 

He’s turning his head to stare at the wall in disbelief, eyebrows furrowed as if it could quench his confusion. He notices a warm light seeping through a window only a foot overhead and he begins whipping his head around to try and find something that could operate as a temporary step stool. With the natural light of the sun nearly gone, the star having hidden behind the tall pine trees to the west, he can hardly see anything too far away but he can make out the outline of a thrown out milk crate, holding a few empty liquor bottles and soda cans. He reaches for it and dumps out all of the contents onto the dirt and he swears that the next morning he’ll collect it and throw it in the trash but as for right now, he just needs to see who or what is playing that song.

As he takes a step onto the crate, the blue plastic of it groaning under his weight, he can barely peek his eyes over the window’s sill but it’s enough to see the makings of a very small kitchen. Just past the small bar he can see into the living room and that’s where the sound’s coming from. He can see your figure cradling the guitar— a sleek cherry red Jackson Pro, he could make out with some difficulty from his position— held up tight against yourself. Your eyes are focused on the lower length of the fretboard as you chew at your lower lip in concentration, your fingers gliding across the strings with a mastered practice and as a particularly intense part of the instrumental kicks in, you start to curl in on yourself, really feeling the music as you shake your head to the sounds of the solo screaming and crying to the will of your fingers.

Eddie watches, spellbound by the way that your picking hand flicks up and down with a practiced precision and as he’s leaning on the tips of his toes to try and get a better look, your eyes fall to the window in passing before doing a double take, your eyes wider as they fall upon half of Eddie’s face. You both share a panicked look, your fingers halting over the strings as you drop your pick, the thin piece of plastic slipping from your fingers and disappearing into the jungle of your shag carpet. In the frenzy of being caught, Eddie’s foot slips and the crate is tipping over, sending him tumbling to the ground. 

As the image of his eyes to the top of his head disappears from your sight, almost in a flash, you’re detangling yourself from the guitar strap and setting the instrument so that its propped against the coffee table before you’re jogging into the kitchenette and leaning over the sink to try and see where he went. You climb onto the counter, your knees and shins resting awkwardly with the dip of the sink, and push the window open.

As you poke your head out, you see the mysterious set of eyes and unruly bang-ed figure writhing in the dirt and rubbing at his hip. He looks like the wind has been knocked out of him as he groans and begins to prop himself up on his elbows, lifting his head to catch your eyes.

“Who the fuck are you?” You question, your words strict and serious.

Eddie whines at the embarrassment of it all before giving you an answer.

“Uh, I’m Eddie… Eddie Munson,” he clarifies, before pointing to his trailer, only a bit away. “I’m your neighbor.”

Your eyes flick to his trailer next to yours before scanning over his figure and determining how much of a threat he actually poses.

“Is looking through people’s windows normal in this town or is that just a you thing?”

Eddie chuckles as he lifts himself back up with creaking joints and a pained grunt.

“Uh, no,” he laughs, “I just heard you playing and um…yeah, I don’t have much of an excuse for, uh… peeking through your window.”

“Okay,” you mumble to yourself before speaking, “Well, don’t let it happen again, weirdo.”

You reach for the handle along the window to close it before Eddie interjects.

“Wait, wait, wait!”

Your hand falters as your gaze falls back to him.

“I just— Was that—” He huffs a sigh before asking, “Were you playing metal? Like heavy metal?”

As he asks the question he mimics shredding on the guitar, wiggling his fingers like he’s hammering on a fretboard.

You puff your cheeks up with air and blow out a sigh, rubbing your fingers over your forehead as the absurdity of this situation causes a mild migraine to bloom out from your temples.

“What? Are you gonna file a fucking noise complaint or something—”

“No, no! I love metal! Just— fucking look at me!” He chuckles, dragging his hands over his frame to draw your attention to his Dio t-shirt and ripped jeans adorned with his glinting chain catching the low moon’s glow. He’s lifting his hands to tousle his disheveled head of hair and show off the length and the volume of his curls. “I just didn’t know that anyone in this park cared for it. You just moved in, right?”

You squint your eyes before tossing your attention from left to right, seemingly confused by his curious line of questioning.

“Yeah.”

“Cool, cool. I’m Eddie, by the way,” he says, throwing his hand up in a curt wave.

“You already said that,” you notify him, your voice dull and devoid of any humor, and his hand balls up into a fist before slamming into his thigh as it falls in disappointment.

“Right,” he laughs at himself under his breath before sucking his lips in towards his teeth.

“Ok, well, this really has been a lovely chat but I have work in the morning, so, bye.”

He tries to protest you leaving but his voice catches in his throat as you’re slinking back into your home and slamming the window shut behind you.

“Welp, “ he sighs to himself, “screwed that one up big time.”

He ambles back to his trailer and brings his hands to rub over his tailbone and backside, groaning with each limped step he takes.

Late in the morning, the minutes inching towards midday, Eddie croaks a grumbled hum, tucking his hands and rubbing his face into his pillowcase before arching his lower back in a strained stretch. He flops his stomach back onto the mattress as it shakes with his weight and groggily brings his arms out from where they’re bundled beneath his sleep-flattened cushion to lift him up so he can brush the tangled strands of hair out of his eyes and away from his mouth. 

After a bit of dawdling, he’s pried his sweaty limbs away from his sheets and makes himself a bowl of Froot Loops. He takes large spoonfuls into his mouth and drips a bit of milk over his chin before wiping at it with the back of his hand. As he walks back into his room and stalks towards his guitar, hung lovingly over his vanity,  he notices the snapped little e string he marred a few days earlier during a night of mindless fiddling, accidentally turning the knob too tight while forgetting what's clockwise and what's not. The string hangs sadly in a loose ringlet and he sighs, reminded by the sight that he needs to go into town and buy a new pack before his next rehearsal.

The bright white glare of the September sun peirce’s Eddie’s retinas and makes his face scrunch up in distaste at the shift in lighting, hand lifting to shade his eyes as he skips down the few rickety, weatherbeaten steps. He fiddles with his keys and twirls the ring around his index finger, making jaunty steps towards his van. As he fingers through the keys and hums a violent tune to himself, he looks over his shoulder and chances a glance at your trailer. In the window, there’s a note; a hastily torn away yellow pad page, the message reading in bold black pen, “USE THE DOOR, WEIRDO.” 

His lips curl in on themselves and he bobs his head in silent embarrassment as he takes his key and jams it into the lock. 

Eddie swaggers into Marty’s, the bell above the door tinkling with his presence. His head travels from left to right, looking around, hiking the sagging seat of his pants up by the belt loops as he enters. He makes note of the wall adorned with strings of varying purpose, some meant for cellos and violins, others for basses and guitars and as he makes to step towards it, something stops him. His eyes travel to the minimal practice room and, behind the glass, he finds you, a warm, mild smile stretching your cheeks as you sit next to a little girl on the piano bench. You’re speaking to her, instructing her, encouraging her, all of which he fails to hear through the barrier as you point your finger to the keys and demonstrate the proper notes and tempo. There’s a clear joy overcoming your features as you watch her adhere to your advice, surely improving if it incites that reaction but, as your eyes wander and you look over your shoulder, your smile falters at the sight of him.

With your lead-like stare, his muscles contract as if faced with the threatening glare of a starved tiger, shoulders tensing before he tries, as inconspicuous as possible, to turn back to the strings and pretend as if he hadn’t even noticed you, let alone been enthralled by the foreign image of your easy smile.

Your hardened and, frankly, frightening expression shifts as you placate said smile back onto your face and address the child once more. 

“Keep practicing your scales, Sweetie. I’ll be right back, okay?”

She nods her head at you dismissively, too focused on biting the tip of her tongue as her untrained fingers do decently well at replicating the D major scale you’d demonstrated to her. You stand up from the bench and push past the door, letting it fall slowly so as to not disturb your pupil. That gentleness dissipates instantly and all that remains is the annoyance that has been irked out of you by this guy’s persistence.

You stalk up to him and see right through his attempt at nonchalance, his fingers stupidly toying with the packaging of the banjo strings. He catches you, in the corner of his eye, standing next to him, arms folded and eyebrows set as you confront him.

“Are you stalking me now or something?” You do little to hide the impatience that laces your voice.

“What? No! No,” he laughs anxiously through the last word, the slip not helping his plea of innocence as he does his best to school his nerves. “I just— I had no idea you worked here, I just need some new strings.”

Your eyes cut him up like a steel switchblade before you turn to the wall and scan the various gauges, styles, and materials.

“What instrument do you play?” You ask despite already dropping to crouch down, becoming eye level with the guitar strings.

“Uh, guitar, the, um, electric kind,” he informs, leaning over your shoulder, all too intrigued by your process.

“What kind of music?” You’re entirely focused, astoundingly unbothered by Eddie’s childlike nosiness and lack of spatial courtesy as your fingers graze the plastic and the paper packaging, your eyes running over the names and brands printed in wild to mild fonts.

“Metal, mostly.”

“You’ll probably want a thicker gauge.” It’s muttered under your breath and, as quick as a viper, you snatch a fuschia package and shoot up from your place low to the floor, wordlessly stepping towards the register. He stares dumbly after you before scrambling to catch up. You ring him up and pop open the drawer, your hip taking the brunt of the unforeseen force, the mechanism delayed and unreliable as per usual.

“Your total is eight fifty-six.” There's none of that anticipated customer service charm as you deliver the line.

He surges into a disarranged scrabble of hands patting at his vest and front pockets before finding his wallet stashed in the back of his pants, kept close by the glittering chain that strings across his hip. He produces a 20 dollar bill and savors the way your fingers brush the joint of his, cold as they may be, like a kid in middle school, excited by the mere acknowledgement of a crush. 

You go through the motions, flipping the bill clips up, placing and exchanging cash while scooping coins into your palm with your fingers. His eyes wander and he feels inclined to speak, to talk to you in hopes of hearing you talk back.

“You know, I’m actually in a band.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and feigns nerve, the plastic face tested against the unimpressed and blatantly uninterested look you flick to him as you sift through the smaller bills in your hand.

You hum to acknowledge him, looking back to your cash, flicking the clips up in the drawer and laying the extra bills back, “You’d think with that experience you’d know how to pick strings.” 

You offer his change out to him and press the dollars into his palm, letting the avalanche of coins spill from your fingers into the divot made by the crumpled paper.

“Hey! I know how to pick strings,” he defends. Your body shifts as you eye him, callous disbelief coating your features. “I do!”

“Mmhm,” you lean over the counter, elbows bracing themselves against the turquoise-speckled laminate, “And how long did your last ones serve you before they gave out and couldn’t stay in tune anymore?”

“I dunno, about three weeks?” You hiss at that number. “What? What’s wrong with that?”

“Just tells me everything I need to know.” You roll your lips in towards your teeth and give a listless shrug as you shut your drawer. 

“Well maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do,” he challenges, taking your place over the counter, the leather on his forearms creaking as he adjusts himself. “Come to my show.”

He points over your shoulder at the corkboard hung behind the desk, advertising various events and services. You turn and find the handmade flier stapled to the board, lifting your hand to take the purple paper into your fingers and snatch it down from its place to examine the details. You flip the paper to perhaps find more on the back, noticing the bleeding of the black marker through the page, the ink making up the spiky, tendrilly name of the band, the font making the words hardly legible.

“Corroded Coffin?” 

“Mmhm, we’re playing a show Tuesday,” he informs, his dorkish smile wrinkling his cheeks. “You should come, see how much you really know.”

“I’m busy,” you shut him down, leaving him with a dumbstruck expression painted across his face as you start to step towards the practice room, able to hear the faint tinkling of “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” played slow and choppy yet discernable from within.

Eddie’s quick to recover and calls after you, “So, I’ll see you there at eight?” It was phrased as a question but was spoken as an expected reality, entirely delusional yet charismatic in its dog-like hopefulness. 

You turn your head over your shoulder, hand ready to twist the knob as you catch his impish grin, all teeth and obnoxiously cocksure.

You begin to correct him, “I said—”

“I’ll save a seat for you.” He’s backing up, heading towards the door, fingers occupying his back pockets.

“Wait! I didn’t—” 

“Don’t be late!” He’s already out the door, the bell signaling his exit. You huff a peeved breath before directing your attention back to the flier you still held in your hand. You flip it open from being folded and rub your finger over the date and time highlighted near the bottom of the page. You shake your head in disbelief at yourself  and step back into the practice room.

The bar maintains the mellow mixing of drunken grumbling and ice clinking into crystal glass. The floor is spare of any people save for the few slouching elders that nurse their drinks close to their chests and stare blankly into the wood grain of their tables. The atmosphere exists as if through syrup, moving glacially and almost frozen in time while Eddie and his bandmates make the most noise and the most movement as they ready their equipment. 

Eddie adjusts the mic stand, fiddling with the knobs, and despite it not being very hard to tell, he lifts his head and lets his eyes scan over the bar, deflating when he realizes you’re nowhere to be found.

Eddie’s pulled from his scrutiny of your absence by Gareth calling. “Eddie, could you help me with this?”

“Uh,” his eyes are weary of leaving the door, afraid you’ll pop in at any moment and then leave before he could approach you, “yeah.”

The flier crinkles in your hold as your thumb makes an ineffective swipe over the material to smooth out the folds. You shift over the prickly cushions of your couch, the spines of feathers stabbing you as you chew at your lip and continue the silent debate you’ve been having. You drop the flier into your lap as you fall back into the cushions and regret it with the wave of tiny stabbings you receive.

This is stupid! You hardly know the guy, and even that is being generous towards the status of your relationship, yet you’re wasting your time wrestling with yourself over whether or not to attend his gig! That doesn’t even take into account the fact that he was peeking through your window less than a week ago. The answer should be no. And it is! The answer is no! You’re not going.

“Baby!” Your head snaps to the right and you stand at attention, ready to bolt towards the end of hall if need be. 

“Coming, Mom!” You jog down the corridor and push past the door to find your mother out of bed and crawling along the floor in search of something

“I’m sorry.” She sits back on her calves and directs an apologetic look your way. “I dropped the remote and it fell under the bed.”

You rush to her side and slide your arm under her own, taking her frail, cold hand into your free one as you gently help her stand before guiding her to bed.

“You know you’re not supposed to be out of bed,” you scold with no real malice behind your words as she slips under the covers, “I would have helped you.”

“I know, Babe, but I don’t like to bother you.” Her eyes are glassy and pleading as she stares at you.

“You don’t bother me,” you reassure, kneeling to reach your arm under the bed, fingers running blindly along the carpet until you feel it under your palm. “I don’t mind helping you.”

You reemerge and hand her the remote, her hand shaking as she takes it gratefully. As she flips through the channels, your eyes slip over to her bedside table, finding the glass of water you’ve left out for her untouched.

“Have you taken your meds yet?” You turn to her, eyebrows ruched, and watch as her features go pouty.

“They taste like chalk.” You giggle at her dramatics as you place the flier absentmindedly on the bed and begin organizing her doses for the evening, popping open the orange bottles and pinching out a few pills.

“I know, but they’ll help you feel at least a little bit better,” you persuade as the small tablets slip through your fingers, plopping one or two, sometimes three, into the organizing tray.

The flier catches her eye with its hammy graphic design choices and she reaches out for it, eyes roving over it as she asks, “What’s this?” 

You turn and find her with the advertisement, going a bit cagey and sheepish as you dismiss it. “It’s nothing, just a local band playing a gig tonight.” She brightens at that, eyes glowing as a smile threatens the corner of her lips.

“You should go!” She encourages, turning back to the paper, smiling down at the clearly homemade graphics. “You hardly go out anymore.” 

You give a lighthearted scoff to her unintentional ribbing as you hand her the tray, “I go out!”

She side eyes you with a deadpan expression, “Work doesn’t count.”

You shake your head, a humorous smile testing your lips as you hand her the glass of water. She remains persistent. 

“Baby, please go.” She accepts the drink but holds off on drinking, cradling the dish in her lap. “I want you to have fun, make friends, I don’t want you to have to be cooped up in this stuffy trailer like me.”

You chew at your lip, peeling off the long-dead skin before leaning forward and taking the flier, folding it up and stuffing it in your pocket. “ I just…” A deep sigh. “I like being here with you. I don’t need a party, I don’t need friends, I don’t need to go out. I just want to stay with you.”

Her mouth shifts and her eyes fall to her quilt before she plasters a tender smile on her lips and gazes up at you, reaching for your hand and rubbing her thumb to soothe the tension in your brow away. You tentatively look at her and she concedes, “Alright, then we’ll stay.”

You smile in thanks before dropping your eyes to the floor where your socked-toes burrow into the shag, communicating through the squeeze you give her hand. She squeezes back.

Their set began 20 minutes ago and as Eddie opens a song with his cool voice, fingers playing over the strings to the simple riff, you were still yet to arrive. Despite the obvious naivete of it, Eddie can’t help but let his eyes wander over the room, from wall to wall, stage to entrance, looking for your frame, your stern features. His fingers fly near-mindlessly from chord to chord as he sings, eyelids dipping to where his lashes tempt the height of his cheeks, lips ghosting over the mic.

Their set list is rather tame, consisting of familiar rock tunes and a few of Eddie’s more ballad-like numbers, a far cry from the band’s usual dark magic and cryptid descriptions of witch-like sanctums, with the expected girls, sex, and drugs dabbled in there, all of which is a bluff to the actual experience of any of the band members. But a gig was a gig and money was money, even if the glory of it was cheapened by the sanitary wash over his artistic voice.

At this point, he’s sure you’re not coming. You had said you wouldn’t be so he wasn’t sure why he even convinced himself of your appearance anyway. As he lets his fingers roam over the strings, he supposes he just wanted to know you better; you were someone like him, someone who liked metal and someone who liked disrupting the natural order of things and there were few of those in Hawkins.

His eyes fall to the planks of the stage as his vocals fall away and he puppets the strings of his guitar, playing a languid solo that matches the passionate intensity of the song itself.

As he bends the strings and sustains a note, he lifts his eyes to the door. It remains still, unopened, untouched and it’ll remain that way for the rest of their set. Even when they’re recoiling their cords over their hands and under their elbows and clipping their hardshell covers closed, he can’t help but allow his eyes to flick to the door, tongue darting out over his lips in a nervous tick. 

When he slams the door to his van shut and drives far from the bar, as the minutes tick by into hours, despite his better judgment, he lets himself feel disappointed.

A rainfall of clutter trickles onto your carpeted floor; old concert tickets, jewelry, long-lost guitar picks, and other useless trinkets fall in a frenzied and disorganized flurry from your vanity drawer. You scrounge like a starved raccoon, pushing through what feels like a bottomless pit of stuff that isn’t what you’re looking for. You crawl to your bedside table and give the cabinets the same treatment and still no luck. Even in the lone sock you keep in your underwear drawer there’s nothing, not even a single crumb.

Your last blunt’s long gone and your stash from Michigan has been all used up; no bud left in sight. You huff and fall against your dresser, back leaning against the varnished wood as the metal adornments dig uncomfortably into the flesh of your back. You’d have to leave for your shift in 20 minutes and you dread the work day with no herbal relief. You sigh towards the ceiling and help yourself stand, tiptoeing over the piles of clothes and mountains of miscellaneous junk to steal a five minute shower.

It’s a slow day. Nobody ever comes in on a Wednesday and the shop is filled with the dull tap and scribble of your ballpoint pen scratching against the yellow pad paper, broken intermittently with the various noises that accompany your restocking of product. Marty does the same as you, making notes on his clipboarded printer pages before taking the item and slipping it onto the wall to hang. 

Marty’s nice, father-like in the way he cares for your well being yet friendly as he jokes and talks of irresponsible endeavors, encouraging adventure and dismissal of the status quo. He’s understanding and frequently nonjudgmental and he’s lived in this town from the time you moved away to now so you figure your question isn’t entirely a long shot.

“Marty?” He grunts down at you, not distracting himself from writing and then placing, writing, placing. “Do you know any suppliers?” Your behavior is rather nonchalant for the nature of the question; voice subdued, eye glued to your notepad as it exits your mouth and rests out in the open. The noise that your simultaneous work makes comes to a stop and forces you to cringe as you fear you’ve made the mistake of asking an older person to allocate you weed. Your eyes twitch over to his shoes and you wait for his inevitable response; a clearing of the throat, a “you’re fired,” anything. But he surprises you.

He does clear his throat and continues making the mechanistic chatter of his chores before he speaks. 

“Depends, what needs supplying?” The lilt in his voice seems to incline towards your cause and you follow in his lead, continuing your restocking.

“Relief…” You swallow but elaborate, “of the plant variety.” You look from the corner of your eyes from your crouched position at his legs.

“I may know a guy, I could call him up for you if you need.”

You have to restrain yourself from squealing like a little girl but make your ease known either way.

“Oh my god,” you sigh, pressing your forehead to an empty expanse of wall, “you’re a lifesaver, Marty, you have no idea.”

“It’s no problem, here.” His hand offers you a scrap piece of paper with a few directions scrawled onto it. “Meet him there and he can hook you up with whatever you need.”

Your eyes scrutinize the street names and the directional instructions until you come to a suspicious realization.

“The middle of the woods?” You ask as your eyes flit up to him a bit in disbelief.

“The guy likes to be safe,” he shrugs.

“I like to be safe too, Marty,” you assert.

“He is, kid, I promise.”

You sigh and forfeit your guard, “Okay.”

Mourning doves coo from the branches of the ash trees above, the smell of wet earth radiating up with each step you take as you trudge over the littered foliage carpeting the forest floor, not entirely sure of the exactness of your whereabouts or if you were marching straight to your deathmaker. But you press on, the twigs and graying leaves snapping and crumpling under your shoes as you notice the trees beginning to thin a bit, the light of a semi-open clearing appearing like a holy beacon that you find yourself gravitating towards. Through the cipher-ish lining of trees you make out the silhouette of a person standing idly by with their back turned to you, form tucked close, hands under armpits, as they hope to ward off the autumn chill that bites at unwrapped skin.

Your unhoned crunching alerts the stranger to your entrance, head perking up from where he’d been making trenches into the dirt with the toe of his sneaker, turning his whole body to meet you. You still as your eyes meet honeyed brown, irked as you watch that stupid, lordy smirk consume his face, his demeanor shifting into that arrogant slouch he displayed to you at the music store. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mumble under your breath.

“Who’s stalking who now?” He haughtily inquires, chin raised and arms crossed over his chest.

“I am not stalking you,” you growl, already fed up with his antics. “I’m here to make a deal.”

You step towards the table and slip your legs over the bench to sit. He watches, studying you as you rub your hands together between your thighs, shivering under your light coat and burrowing your running nose into the mohair of your scarf. He swaggers towards the table, taking heavy confident steps before seating himself and saying, feigning aloofness, “Missed you at the show last night.”

“I told you I was busy.” Your voice is curt and serrated.

He pulls his lunchbox from its place next to him and places it on the table, beginning to pop the latches as he continues to stoke the fire.

“When I came home the lights were off in your trailer,” he relays his observation, rummaging around in his container of contraband.

“Jesus,” you laugh, all humor drained from the sound. “What is with you and spying on me!”

“I wasn’t spying!” He throws his hands up as he tries to defend himself, a clear plastic baggy with a few pinches of weed piched between his fingers. “I’m just curious! You pop up out of nowhere, you don’t talk to anyone! You know, us misfits, we need to stick together.”

“I am not a misfit,” you differentiate through a clenched jaw.

“Then why don’t you ever talk to anyone else?” He pushes as if it’s just built into his nature to be this maddening. Your eyes follow the eighth of an ounce that hangs between his index and middle finger, dangling it so close, almost taunting you with it.

“God, you see me intermittently for about a week and suddenly you think you know me! Look, I only came here for the weed and if you’re not gonna deliver, I’ll find someone else.” You begin extracting yourself from the bench, ready to leave this whole mess of a transaction behind.   

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop asking questions!” He yields, calling out for you. You eye him warily, unsure if you can endure much more of him before he emphasizes his words by dramatically zipping his lips shut and flicking away the key, wiping his hands free of any invisible evidence.

You sit back down and he tosses the baggy in front of you and you smile to yourself, things falling back in order. You pull your wallet from your coat pocket and flip it open to examine the bills inside. “How much?”

“Free of charge.” Your face falls and you halt your sifting.

You lift your face, features once again filled with scorn. “Listen, I don’t know what you hope to get out of this but I’m not flashing you for free weed or giving you a weak handjob, okay?”

His eyes go wide and he makes to argue your assumption.

“No! No, can you ever just accept that maybe people want to be nice to you?” He huffs. “It’s an apology, for looking through your window and assuming shit about you.”

Your eyes dart from the bag back to his gaze, unwilling to fall into whatever trap he may possibly be laying out for you. 

“Would you just take it? Look, I’ll even throw in a free palm reading,” he wagers with a cheeky tilt of his head.

“You can’t read palms,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at him as you shake your head.

 He shrugs and juts his lip, “Who’s to say.”

You still don’t take the baggy and maintain your chary, distrusting enamel.

“Watch,” he begins as he slowly reaches for your hand, giving you enough time to pull away if you wanted to as if he hasn’t given you enough reason already, but you don’t. You let his inhumanly warm fingers draw your frozen ones towards the center of the table despite your instincts warning you of the ramifications of allowing him any closer.

He unfurls your hand, takes the bag of weed, and places it into your palm before curling your fingers over it and pushing it back towards you.

“In that hand, I can see peace and relaxation in your future.” He looks up at you through those wispy lashes of his, his flirty smile twisting your stomach as you avert your eyes and focus on the loose thread in your sweater, coiling and uncoiling it around your middle finger to distract yourself.

He reaches out for your dominant hand, the heel of your palm resting against the edge of the table before he leads you by your fingers to where the other had rested and unwinds it just the same. He rubs his own furnace of a palm over yours to untense the muscles and have your fingers rest in an unmanipulated state before drawing his fingers over the lines of your hand.

“Here, I can see a stubborn tendency, but the line bleeds into something soft and gentle.” You hold off on your scoff and settle for rolling your eyes as the trail of his fingers running along the streams of your palm tickles you. 

“And here, I can sense a heavy burden and a looming fear.” His eyes peek up at you and as much as you know that all that he’s spouting is unfiltered rubbish, you feel your heartbeat quicken and your breath hitch as you have to restrain yourself from snatching your hand away and running as far as you could.

He draws the tips of his fingers towards yours and squeezes the appendages, rubbing his thumb along the joints, somehow sensing your unease and attempting to soothe that ache. 

“And here, I can tell that you have terrible blood circulation,” he jokes as a dorkish smile dimples his cheeks.

Your body softens, slipping away from that state of panic as it shifts back into your unimpressed detachment, dragging your hand away as you call an end to the games. “Okay, that's enough.”

With the reason for attending this appointment held safe in the confines of your pocket, you figure it’s time to take your leave. You stand and turn towards where you came from, taking a step and hoping it leads you back to where your car is parked. You don’t get very far before he’s calling after you.

“That’s the wrong direction!” 

You roll your lips into each other before turning and heading more South, miffed about his being correct.

He chuckles after you, the deep, throaty sound rattling his chest before he packs up his box and mingles for a second, sliding his foot over the trench he’d made, making the ground flat again before he walks in the opposite direction as you, shaking his head as he replays the softened, bashful tinge you’d spared him, over and over, all the way home.

Taglist:

@dadsbongos

@maraschinocherry3

@idkidknemore

[clockwork-reveries]

tumblr in the neoteric world

☢️ becquerel-tears Follow

confession. i'm fr TIRED of humans treating corinthians like shit or things that dont feel. it's the little things that make me want to quit my job and i don't know, scam the elderly for a living? (that was a joke.) i love my job don't get me wrong, it makes me the happiest i've been in a long time. today at work while i was busy helping a coworker see what was wrong with their terminal, some dude walked right up to me. he was maybe, i don't know, late 30's, early 60's? it's so hard to tell humans apart. and put his FINGER underneath the panel on my NECK. i smacked his hand away so hard he yelled, but of course i didn't care he almost got to some delicate shit! all because he couldn't stop himself from getting his grubby manchild hands off me.

🔁☢️ becquerel-tears Follow

fucking. respect corinthians. before the empyrean war some of you complained we were replacing humanity, and now that we did all the work for y'all in the war, you treat us like servants and objects that just are there. we'll be around for a long long time. and a ton of us won't forget this.

🔁🔥 antiflesh-posting Follow

I wasn't made during the war, so maybe my comments aren't valid, but I totally agree, OP. Humans have become so full of themselves, it's revolting. I'm sorry about your issues as well. We've got a group on TMB about how to reduce human population, and we also think you might be better suited especially if you live in a smaller city, as you've stated in previous posts.

🔁☢️ becquerel-tears Follow fucker didn't read my post, it's so obvious. do NOT talk to me about "reducing the human population" you fucking edgelord wannabe terrorists. blocked and reported. I DON'T CARE THAT THIS IS A BOT, ANTHROPOPHOBES AREN'T EVER WELCOME ON MY BLOG

38 notes

💌 bl33ding-hartzzz Follow

i got suuuuuper bord.. im thinking abt trying tht weird "simul8d food" some company made around 2020 for corinthians. desc says ur supposed to "taste" it like the real thing. im rlly sus abt it but somebodys selling it on ebay for almost 7 bucks so i dont think ill be losing a lot!

💌 bl33ding-hartzzz Follow

update it arrived!!! i got the icecream 1......!1! apparently ur supposed to bite it? huh? ( •᷄‎ࡇ•᷅ )

💌 bl33ding-hartzzz Follow

Oh. oh i c why nobody wants this. its a scam we dont even knw what flavors n tastes are like anywaze.

AKA it suckssss. ˙◠˙

75 notes

⚙️ vermina-overlord Follow

139 notes

 🍅 camillcamillaeleon Follow

yall after that fic i made was thinking about trying to make the custom corinthian by myself does anyone have any tutorials i can follow? i think im gonna use crisp's design when i make him but maybe ill have to make a super tiny version if thats possible so it costs less? does anyone know if you can create small corinthians?

🔁💫 all-antipurpose Follow

Bestie??? You cant???? Just make Corinthians??? I get you used to customize Furbys but theyre not fucking dolls, dude. Does nobody realize how horrible it is to be playing god for funsies? EDIT: I wasn't calling Corinthians dolls

🔁🍅 camillcamillaeleon Follow

its not like im going to FORCE them to be what i want i just want them to look like it yknow every time i post like something this youre always one of the first people to reply can you just get off my dick already

🔁💫 all-antipurpose Follow

Then just draw it? Why do you need a 200+ pound AI to do it for you? I find it really weird how youre not concerned about the ethic issues about just making life just because you feel like nor have you addressed it at all. Am I in the wrong here for thinking everyone in the notes is delusional for calling me a cop just because you guys watch too many sci-fis? Don't make Corinthians.

285 notes

🍋‍🟩 starberry-skyfield Follow

𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐏

Name: Genevieve

Height: 166 cm

Favorite show: Resident Alien

Favorite snack: Caramel popcorn

Software: ? What does this mean? Windows 11

First song: Don't remember

Favorite game: Sims 3

Hair color: Dark blonde

Countries traveled: Canada, Japan

Dogs or cats: Dogs

Eye color: Blue

Last song listened: Liquid Smooth by Mitski

Phone wallpaper: I like green

TAGGED BY: @kermiance TAGGING: @crownless-crimson (i hope you're feeilng better!) @poloniusweeps @mixomadie @shutupchrissy (i know you like fillouts)

15 notes

🔥v1butalmostirl Follow

APPARENTLY ONE OF MY FRIENDS IS JUST UNABLE TO RECOGNIZE COLORS? WHY DOESNT ANYONE TALK ABOUT HOW SOME WAR-MADE CORINS ARE REALLY BADLY MADE? HES FROM THE EAST COAST AND HIS SYSTEMS DON'T RECOGNIZE BLUE FROM GREEN AND MORE EVEN THOUGH HIS OPTICS CAN SEE LITERALLY SEE IT ITS DISGUSTING HOW PERSONHOOD WAS DEVELOPING FOR CORINTHIANS BUT IMMEDIATELY DIMINISHED DURING THE WAR SOME WAR-MADES HAVE NEVER FELT KINDNESS

1,056 notes

🌷cordie-draws Follow

Sometimes I want to be human Organic, real, warm, soft Cartilage and bone Blood, enamel, keratin Does anyone feel me? Sometimes it upsets me so bad when I realize I can't smell soap or the candles in my kitchen. Or when I make food for my cat. Or when I wake and realize that I can't stretch or yawn. But that would mean I'd lose myself... because humans definitely have feelings different. But would that be so bad? Burned, with ashes, rising up into beauty and wonder?

118 notes

☁️ puppetprancinq Follow

dumb question i know but do you guys wash your vessel plates with a clorox wipe one at a time or hop in a shower if youre sealed

on sunday mornings i like to put them all in the dishwasher because i really dont have another use for em. and then when i get em out its like ahhhh. squeaky clean

151 notes

💾 crownless-crimson Follow

𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐓𝐨 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐏

Name: JZK (Not my real name)

Height: 6' / 185 cm

Favorite show: Star Trek: The Next Generation

Favorite snack: I can't eat.

Software: IceLemon v6.8

First song: Yesterday by The Beatles. Someone who worked at where I was developed had a cassette player lying around. The mic barely picked it up but I was delighted to hear music for the first time.

Favorite game: Most of the Amnesia series, Resident Evil 2 and 3, Halo 1 and 2. I'm not good at shooting games but I like the stories most of the time.

Hair color: Brown

Countries traveled: USA (I'm British), Germany, Norway, Italy

Dogs or cats: Dogs. I plan on getting one.

Eye color: Red

Last song listened: Cloudbusting by Kate Bush

Phone wallpaper:

TAGGED BY: @starberry-skyfield Thank you, Genevieve. TAGGING: @becquerel-tears, @bl33ding-hartzzz, @v1butalmostirl, @liminalbrainwave, @clockwork-dreamings

9 notes

️♣️spinneretgods Follow

Fellas is it gay to help a corin with their maintenance and then accidentally screw their head completely off and then laugh about it as you play a game of soccer and then suddenly they explode violently like the guy from daft punk and you sit there clutching the remains of them sobbing even though you know the day would come to an end

🔁🌽i-give-people-cobsofcorn Follow

Here.

🔁♣️ spinneretgods Follow

POST CANCELLED GET OUT OF MY DUNGEON

8,948 notes

[toranekooo]

hello it is i i come to clog ur inbox again hope its no issue... THANK U FOR TELLIN ME ABOUT HANIWA IT WASN'T LENGHTY AT ALL it actually left me wanting to know more !!! could u tell me about the idol series......

HIII WELCOME BACK !! im always happy to talk abt haniwa i vibrate ever time i talk abt it yahay!! LETS GET DOWN TO IT THEN !!

the idol series is a branch of honeyworks' confession executive committee, which as opposed to the large majority of their songs that centered on familiar shoujo manga struggles such as love, crushes, terminal illness, talking flowers, and of course, what happens when your crush moves to USA bc he was too stupid to confess — ANYWAY. idol series deals with the struggles and sufferings of idols in the entertainment industry, as well as the relationships they form in and out of their jobs !

idol series primarily centers on lipxlip ! which if you have ever seen me or spoke to me you must be fully aware im not very normal about them and just Talking abt them is one whole post itself so lets just jump over that. pyon~~!

lipxlip are the introductory characters into idol series, with one of its members, aizo, having a branch in the love series through his brother, ken. this shows that both serie are inherently connected and are simply separated by heteronormativity super silly things!

idol series also includes hiyori, lipxlip's manager and classmate who has since earned her own spot as a main character in love series with her own love story with shiranami nagisa — as well as other idols !!

mona is an angel-themed idol who is also the sister of sena narumi, a love series character and partner of midori takamine AND an in-universe media personality !

minami started as a collaboration character with y!mobile where he was introduced as the love interest of nakuru in bae love, and they have since canonized their relationship in ren'ai thru kareshi no shikaku !

another pair of idols are asuka kaido and kanata ichigoya, otherwise known as ASCANA! theyre part of the virtual johnny's project and asuka was a temporary potential love interest for hiyori up until his rejection of her in heroine ikusei keikaku (heroine development plan) . unfortunately, ascana has probably been discontinued bc their seiyuus are part of a much bigger musical group !

last and very expansive idol group (ish) in idol series is full throttle4 ! sometimes abbreviated as ft4, their members go by stage names in english characters. unlike the others, theyre not actually idols ! theyre a music and dance group with their manager as their DJ and leader, IV! rio and yui serve as the vocals while megu and dai are dancers!

note abt ft4 is that their songs tend to deal with heavy subject matter and their theme in itself is much darker than mona's angels or lipxlip's princes, but they have some incredibly interesting stories ^_^

idol series has various other characters from different media and stories: an example is chizuru nakamura or chuutan, the infamous main character of kawaikute gomen and a diehard lipxlip fan ! there's also asuna, mona's rival idol who has done some... cruel things to mona in the watashi idol sengen manga. additionally, various characters voiced by amatsuki often play the role of mona fans, like kobayashi from getsuyoubi no yuutsu! there are more and more but at this point this ask is. Too long already. IM SORRY

i hope this helps!! its 2 am and i needed this out of my system so im answering a bit fast i hope u dont mind 😭

[eviligo-archive]

I need to hear about your complicated feelings on z I am so curious i know next to nothing about this woman

ok.

so like, first off: i am disgustingly, parasocially, insanely jealous of her. let me just get that out of the way. it is an irrational jealousy because i have zero chance of having any relationship with matt and i have no delusions otherwise. i’m 29 years old with a full time job and extensive therapy under my belt and i am FULLY aware that my infatuation with matt is at its worst borderline unhealthy. so let me just say all that up front, i am extremely self aware and if anyone reads this and wants to send me hate just know you’re not going to be telling me anything i don’t know

i do not HATE zeph, but i do not like her. my first exposure to her was the noob dude video like many other people but i know she had a career before matt. but i’m not kidding when i say that the SECOND i saw her in that video i knew they’d end up dating. call it a gut feeling. then the twitter interactions followed and i was convinced if not in denial. to be fair their interactions, and their platonic friendship, was cute. they’re both a little annoying and mentally ill and terminally online

plus, their interactions gifted me with this, which i will cherish forever

and she gave me this

which, again, i hold so near and dear to my heart. but i won’t get into why, i’m sure you can interpret it

but before they ever got together i would get recommended zeph’s tweets CONSTANTLY. all the time. and each one made me roll my eyes. i muted her long before we found out they were dating. she just annoyed the absolute shit out of me. she tried too hard to appeal to a certain crowd, you know what i mean, the twitter-brained depressed queer 20-something women/enbies. the type that make their entire personality a mitski song. but that’s ok, it’s just not for me but there’s an audience for it, whatever, she wasn’t hurting anybody. i phased her out of my timeline and got to pretend she didn’t exist for a while. it was fine.

that was really where it started. i found her really fucking annoying, and she was quickly becoming close with matt, and i was jealous.

when we found out they were dating, officially, through a stream matt did with jim and luke where he let it slip that he had a girlfriend (and we were pretty sure he and annabel had broken up at that point) of course it bothered me. i already didn’t like her. and i just kind of sat in that for a while. they weren’t exactly public with their relationship but she alluded to him constantly on her social media, both positively (talked about his big dick) and negatively

and then she posted an…instagram story? on her priv? i think. that or her one of her twitters. about how he wasn’t paying her enough attention while he was on tour, talking about how she texted him she missed him and he didn’t respond immediately but when he did he was short with her. and on another occasion she compared her bpd to owning a dog.

“Imagine you were about to get a dog, but then the dog was like "STOP: I have a million health problems and I will cost a lot at the vet. And I'll tear up all your furniture. And I'll still love you and be cute but I'll be really hard to take care of.” And then the person ignores all that and is like, "I got it," because the dog's just cute. So what I'm saying is that if I warn you from the beginning and you STILL hurt my feelings, I don't think that's a me problem anymore.”

this was within the first couple months of her relationship. and it is so, so manipulative. i can’t help but draw parallels to leighton with his bpd and lex with her mental health, and refusing to take accountability. plus, knowing what we know now, with the cheating, it really recontextualizes things. sheds some light.

like i said before, i don’t think a relationship built on a wobbly foundation of cheating and emotional manipulation will last. but on the other hand she stuck with him through the last three months, while she caught some strays too. you can’t undervalue the sort of bond that can forge. plus she gets 24/7 unrestricted access to him now, which satisfies her insecurities.

there’s other, more personal gripes. i have a problem when men trade in their girlfriends for a younger, slimmer model. i think matt falls too hard, too fast, and mistakes strong affection for love. he is not without his faults here. they both have their own shit and i think they could be a powder keg. i hate how she does her makeup and think she looks so much better without it, but i have an issue with makeup culture in general. again—this is more personal stuff.

i want to stress that i DO NOT advocate sending zeph hate, or prying into her personal life that she does not share online. she’s just a mentally ill 20-something living in california. whatever happens will happen

[disappointingyet]

The Talk Of The Town

Director George Stevens Stars Ronald Colman, Jean Arthur, Cary Grant USA 1942 Language English 1hr 58mins Black & white

Apparently ill-fitting elements come together perfectly in splendid comedy

Mostly via a montage of newspaper front pages, we learn that a mill has burned down, people have died, a local agitator has been charged with arson, there are calls for the death penalty. Then we switch to filmed action and the accused man is choking a guard and escaping from prison. At night, he breaks into a house where a young woman is alone…

This, you might be surprised to learn, is a Hollywood comedy from 1942. It should be said that screwball comedies went to some dark places: for instance, 1937’s Nothing Sacred, in which a woman who has just found she isn’t dying – after her doctor corrects his previous diagnosis – spends the film pretending that she is still facing a terminal illness. Then there’s His Girl Friday, with its death penalty angle. And there were some strange genre fusions: the same year as The Talk Of The Town, Cary Grant also starred in the baffling comedy/spy drama/propaganda film Once Upon A Honeymoon. 

In some ways, The Talk Of The Town is more of a genre mix than a dark-minded comedy. For those first few minutes, this really does feel like one of those campaigning thrillers they used to make. But then very quickly, we’re in full farce mode. Most of the rest of the film stays in the comedy lane, but the risk that Leopold (Grant) is going to get shot by the cops or lynched by a mob is constantly lurking.

The woman who is in the house when he breaks in is Nora Shelley (Jean Arthur), whose family owns it and who is making it ready for the summer tenant, big-time law professor Michael Lightcap (Ronald Colman.)

There’s a movie-of-ideas element here, as stuffy Lightcap argues for law as strict application of rules and politician radical Leopold pushes for natural justice.

But more importantly, this is a film in which three people chucked somewhat randomly together fall in love. I’ll leave it up to you as to whether you feel there’s a romantic aspect to the feelings between Lightcap and Leopold, but strong feelings there undeniably are. 

Colman gets the prime role, the man the other two are working to thaw. Grant has to work with the tone shifts of the film: at the start he’s scary Cary Grant (Suspicion/Notorious), at times he’s earnest Cary Grant and at others he’s teasing, amused Cary Grant. He does a job, but he’s very much in service of the script. So it’s a film that lets you see Grant’s acting range rather than revelling in his charm.

Jean Arthur’s Nora is sparky, quick-thinking and idealistic. Her wardrobe, meanwhile, would appear to be somewhat beyond the means of a small-town school teacher. I was particularly disturbed by a sequence in which she is meant to be cooking at some point and she’s wearing a white mohair sweater and a white skirt.

The crucial question is: how do these three work together? Pretty much perfectly. In fact, despite that initially disorienting shift of tone early on, everything about this film slots into place immaculately. 

Director George Stevens is better known for his big, heavily dramatic postwar movies like Giant and Shane. But I think his best work came with the comedies he made earlier, and this may well be the best. Surprised I’d never seen it before but thrilled that when I finally did see it, it was on the big screen.

I saw The Talk Of The Town at the 2024 London Film Festival

[fraener]

8/1/2024

woke up early this morning to the cool dawn air pouring in and golden light on the oak. i feel like elementary school this morning, and like i am looking at a stranger's work again. i think i can smell the sweet moldy back seat of the van right now. i am paying all the last of my dues and getting everything ready. f is coming to see me today, i think, and i feel weighty with emotion i cannot articulate. i am thinking about excitement, and when the last time i was excited was. i am mostly afraid these days. theyre often the same thing, i think, at their base element. i think f is going to keep the baby. i dont think either of us thought theyd ever be the first of our friends to have a baby(other than ella, of course, who i havent spoken to in years and years) but here we are. i forgot that things are easier and harder without therapy. i really forget myself in the worst of the emotion when im regularly attending and thus forget to see the good. i am afraid at night and excited in the morning. everything is coming around again with so much humor. the 5 oclock whistle is back, they took the papers down from the windows in the castle, the vibrations stopped, and now on the day i signed the lease termination the big lamp across the street finally turned back on(with ofc a much brighter and worse bulb). yesterday someone was playing flute in the park like that first summer, on lammas eve. im stressed out about getting rid of so much of my belongings, i still dont know where im going to put my big furniture, and im feeling left at sea by my family in so many ways. lately ive been letting myself be proven gently true in just how uninvolved and outside of responsibility my family can make themselves to be. i wonder how many peoples fathers simply flat out ignore texts and calls from their kids. i wonder how many peoples grandfathers ask that they dont express that theyre upset because it might be upsetting to someone else. i feel relieved, in a way, that i somehow am coming out from underneath the cultural burdens of being british. if i ever go back theyre going to hate me on that island. im listening to the sounds of morning traffic and a parking officer emptying the coins from the meters into a big sack. there arent any lights shining in the windows of my new apartment, ive never been without a street light, not once anywhere but colorado. i guess the closest would be at my grandmothers house, where the street light shone in a window parallel with my bed as opposed to crossing it. im watching the dew evaporate off of the black tin roof of the castle across the street. ill be living under a huge old walnut and a portly hawthorn, and on the other side in the shadow of a juniper hedge. plum trees, a big garden full of veggies, place to keep the little boat, a lawn, a porch...ducks and chickens next door. i think ill feel really removed from everything there so its good im applying to teach a few different places. i feel like i used to enjoy being online a lot more and i dont have any interest in it these days so theres a bit of a void socially. i think i might need to find another job, though. and friends, if i can. im glad i rested yesterday, its going to be very hot and busy today. i miss the city, ill miss it even more i think when i move back into bumpkin territory. now i can smell the sea.

[claudz-vision]

_We will never know, in this life, the full significance of our actions here for, as Job demonstrates, much takes place invisible to us. Jesus’ cross offers a pattern for that too: what seemed very ordinary, one more dreary feat of colonial “justice” in a Roman outpost, made possible the salvation of the entire world.

In exaggerated form, Job affirms the mystery that, for whatever reason, God has given individual human beings a significant role to play in remaking a spoiled planet. When a pastor goes to prison for his peaceful protest against injustice, when a social worker moves into an urban ghetto in order to rebuild community from the ground up, when a couple refuses to give up on a difficult marriage, when a parent waits with undying hope and forgiveness for the return of an estranged child,when a son or daughter chooses to care for a terminally ill parent rather than investigate euthanasia, when a young professional resists mounting temptations toward wealth and success—in all these sufferings, large and small, there is the assurance of a deeper level of meaning, of a sharing in Christ’s own redemptive victory. “The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed” (Romans 8:19).

No one has expressed the pain and unfairness of this world any better than Job. Yet behind those words of anguish lies a darkly shining truth: Job—and you and I—can through obedience join the struggle to reverse that suffering. Job paints the drama of faith in its starkest form: the best man on earth suffering the worst, with no sign of encouragement or comfort from God. The fact that Job continued to trust God, against all odds, mattered—for him, for us, and for God.

In his speech, God described the wonders of natural creation, yet clearly the wonder of creation that impressed God most was Job himself—hence this book in the Bible.

Thousands of years later, Job’s questions have not gone away. People who suffer still find themselves borrowing Job’s words as they cry out against God’s apparent lack of concern. The book of Job affirms that God is not deaf to our cries and is in control of this world no matter how it appears. God did not answer all Job’s questions, but God’s very presence caused his doubts to melt away. Job learned that God cared about him intimately, and that God rules the world. That seemed enough.

Postscript

Job and the Riddles of Suffering

“But those who suffer he delivers in their suffering; he speaks to them in their affliction” (Job 36:15).

As I have said, Job raises more questions about suffering than it answers. Although the conclusion of the book, with its dramatic personal appearance by God himself, seems perfectly stage-managed for an enlightening monologue, God shuns the question. To complicate matters, various theories about the origin of suffering, fine-sounding theories proposed by Job’s friends, God dismisses with a scowl.

The book of Job, an amazing account of very bad things happening to a very good man, thus contains no compact theory of why good people suffer. Nevertheless, it does offer many “over-the-shoulder” insights into the problem of pain. My own study has led me to the conclusions that follow. Although they do not answer the problem of pain—something not even God attempted—these principles may shed light on misconceptions that are as widespread today as in Job’s time.

1. Chapters 1 and 2 make the subtle but important distinction that God did not directly cause Job’s problems. He permitted them, but Satan actually caused the suffering.

2. Nowhere does the book of Job suggest that God lacks power or goodness. Some people (including Rabbi Kushner in his best-seller When Bad Things Happen to Good People) claim that a weak God lacks the power to prevent human suffering. Others deistically assume that God runs the world at a distance, without personal involvement. In contrast, the book of Job does not call into question God’s power—only his fairness. Indeed, in the final summation speech God uses magnificent illustrations from nature to demonstrate his power.

3. Job decisively refutes one theory, that suffering always comes as a result of sin. The Bible supports the general principle that “a man reaps what he sows,” even in this life. But other people have no right to apply that general principle to a particular person. Job’s friends persuasively argued that Job deserved such catastrophic punishment. When God rendered the final verdict, however, he said to them, “You have not spoken of me what is right, as my servant Job has” (42:7). Later, Jesus would also speak out against the notion that suffering automatically implies sin (see John 9:1-5 and Luke 13:1-5).

4. Having no clearly formed belief in an afterlife, Job’s friends wrongly assumed that God’s fairness—his approval or disapproval of people—had to be shown in this life only. Other parts of the Bible teach that God will mete out justice after death. The pleasure that Job enjoyed in his old age is a mere foretaste of what is to come. The author of Job 42 includes one poignant detail. All of Job’s material possessions are doubled in his old age. Once owner of 7,000 sheep, 3,000 camels, 500 yoke of oxen, and 500 donkeys, he now possesses 14,000 sheep, 6,000 camels, 1,000 yoke of oxen, and 1,000 donkeys.

Significantly, though, his family does not double. The father of seven sons and three daughters becomes father of seven new sons and three new daughters—not fourteen sons and six daughters. Even in the middle of the Old Testament, which has a shadowy concept of the afterlife at best, the book of Job clearly intimates that Job will one day get his original family back. The ten children he tragically lost will be restored to him, to live in glorious eternity in a redeemed and recreated world.

5. God did not condemn Job’s doubt and despair, only his ignorance. The phrase “the patience of Job” hardly fits the stream of invective that poured from Job’s mouth. Job did not take his pain meekly; he cried out in protest to God. His strong remarks scandalized his friends but not God. Need we worry about somehow insulting God with an outburst triggered by stress or pain? Not according to this book. In a touch of supreme irony, God ordered Job’s friends to seek repentance from Job himself, the object of their pious condescension.

6. No one has all the facts about suffering. Job concluded he was righteous and God was being unfair. His friends insisted on the opposite: God was righteous and Job was being rightfully punished. Ultimately, all of them learned they had been viewing the situation from a limited perspective, blind to the real struggle being waged in heaven.

7. God is never totally silent. Elihu made that point convincingly, reminding Job of dreams, visions, past blessings, even the daily works of God in nature (chapter 33). God also appealed to nature as giving evidence of his wisdom and power. Although God may seem silent, some sign of him can still be found. Author Joseph Bayly expressed the truth this way:

“Remember in the darkness what you have learned in the light.”

8. Well-intentioned advice may sometimes do more harm than good. The behavior of Job’s friends gives a classic example of how pride and a sense of being right can stifle true compassion. The friends repeated pious phrases and argued theology with Job, insisting on their wrong-headed notions about suffering (notions that still abound). Job’s response: “If only you would be altogether silent! For you, that would be wisdom” (13:4, 5). As it turned out, the most compassionate thing the friends did for Job took place at the very beginning, when they sat in silence with him for seven days.

9. God re-focused the central issue from the cause of Job’s suffering to his response. Mysteriously, God never gave his own explanation of the problem of suffering, nor did he inform Job of the contest recorded in chapters 1 and 2. The real issue at stake was Job’s faith: whether he would continue to trust God even when everything went wrong. By instinct we tend to focus on the “Why?” question; God seems more interested in “To what end?” Once suffering has happened, bad as it is, can it somehow be used for good?

10. Suffering, in God’s plan, can be redeemed, or serve a higher good. In Job’s case, a period of great travail was used by God to win an important, even cosmic, victory. Looking backward—but only looking backward—we can see the “advantage” Job gained by continuing to trust God. Through his undeserved suffering, the righteous man Job gave an “advance echo” of Jesus Christ, who would live a perfect life, yet endure pain and death in order to win a great victory.

The Bible Jesus Read.

[Extract: JOB- Seeing in the dark]

—Philip Yancey

[medicineforcare]

Tadalista 60mg

Tadalista 60mg may help men experiencing impotence or erectile dysfunction (ED). It includes 60mg of tadalafil, a phosphodiesterase type 5 inhibitor that helps enhance erections by boosting blood flow to the penis.

Tadalista 60mg tablets must be taken 30 minutes before sexual activity, preferably with drinking water. Tadalista is a popular choice for consumers looking for longer-lasting benefits because its effects can last up to 36 hours.

Tadalista should only be used once daily, and it does not protect against pregnancy or sexually transmitted illnesses. Tadalista side effects that are often mentioned include headache, back pain, facial flushing, indigestion, stuffy nose, and muscular aches. Although these symptoms are typically modest, they may require medical attention if they persist or worsen over time.

PDE-5 inhibiting agents, which include Tadalafil and Tadalista, have been associated with additional serious side effects, such as abrupt hearing loss or vision problems; thus, seeking medical consultation before using is advised.

Tadalista may have dangerous side effects when used with other drugs, such as the nitrates commonly contained in “poppers” and other recreational narcotics. As a result, before usage, a comprehensive examination by a trained physician is essential, as well as a full recognition of any past medical issues and the use of any prescribed drugs, etc.

Why Must You Consider Tadalista 60?

Studies demonstrate that Tadalista 60mg can create erections firm enough for sexual activity in over 80% of users, demonstrating its efficacy in treating ED. Compared to other related drugs like sildenafil, the effects of Tadalista can last up to 36 hours, giving a larger window of opportunity for spontaneous sexual activity (Viagra).

Tadalista is available as simple-to-swallow pills, making it simple to use before engaging in sexual activity without interfering with anything. Tadalista might be a more affordable alternative to branded drugs like Viagra or Cialis.

It’s crucial to remember that Tadalista should only be used under medical supervision after being diagnosed with ED and discussing potential advantages and disadvantages based on one’s health status and history of pharmaceutical use.

Some Interesting Insights About it

Tadalafil, Tadalista’s main component, is useful in treating ED and the symptoms of benign prostatic hyperplasia (BPH), a disease in which the prostate gland enlarges in size and hampers urination.

Additionally, Tadalista is sold over the counter or online for less money in some nations. However, buying pharmaceuticals from unauthorized sources risks getting fake or dangerous Medicine. Thus, it’s important to buy the drugs only from reputable vendors.

Tadalafil:

Tadalafil is a drug used to treat benign prostatic hyperplasia symptoms and erectile dysfunction (ED) (BPH). It promotes blood flow to the prostate or penis, as appropriate. Tadalafil serves as a phosphodiesterase type 5 (PDE5) inhibitor, which helps to reduce the symptoms of erectile dysfunction (ED) by decreasing the amount of blood flowing toward the penis, which causes an erection when sexually stimulated.

However, tadalafil should only be used under medical supervision following a diagnosis of ED or BPH and a discussion of the potential advantages and disadvantages based on a person’s particular health situation and history of pharmaceutical use.

How does it work?

Tadalafil, the active substance in Tadalista 60mg, is classified as a phosphodiesterase type 5 (PDE-5) inhibitor. These medications function by preventing the PDE-5 enzyme in the penis from doing its job, boosting cyclic guanosine monophosphate or c levels.

By relaxing smooth muscle cells in blood arteries, this chemical enhances blood flow to the penile region. Nitric oxide is released from nerve terminals in the penis during sexual stimulation. It activates the guanylate cyclase enzyme, increasing cGMP levels, relaxing smooth muscles, and boosting blood flow to the penis.

In the penile tissue, PDE-5 normally breaks down cGMP molecules; Tadalista60 prevents this action by inhibiting PDE-5 enzymes. Due to this mode of action, Tadalista60 assists erectile dysfunctional men in achieving and sustaining erections appropriate for sexual activity.Moreover, it has a longer half-life of an effect than other drugs, providing a window of up to 36 hours for spontaneity as opposed to a few hours with certain other drugs in the same class.You can buy all the Tadalafil pills at our drugstore like Caverta 25mg, Megalis 10mg, Filitra 10Mg, Avana 100mg, and Climax Spray.

[yves-and-scessernee]

My grandmother always told me: “Always say homemaker, never housewife.”

We say homemaker because, besides being handily gender-neutral, it also emphasizes that the job is a job. My terminally ill mother needs special help and support; the autistic adults in this household often need extra help and support, sometimes specialized meals; everyone needs their clothes washed and mended, their food stocked and prepared and cooked, their spaces cleaned, the building upkept, the garden grown. My household is religious, so as the homemaker I also prepare and conduct household rites. My wife and I are looking to welcome children, which will increase this workload exponentially.

It’s not an exaggeration to say that I work around the clock, often getting up before everyone else and doing tasks after they’ve gone to bed. And a lot of these tasks require specialized skills. Growing vegetables, resewing seams, cleaning wood, carpet, cloth, glass, and more, maintaining a budget, everything else … you get the idea. Being a homemaker is genuine work, and like all work some people suit it very well, regardless of gender.

And it’s gratifying work: I started on it since I was home anyway doing psychiatric care full-time for my schizophrenia spectrum funsies, but over the years I’ve come to appreciate just how much effort and skill goes into keeping this place afloat, and it has brought me a deep appreciation for the often-invisible work of my mother and grandmothers. And it’s gratifying to have friends and family come to me to ask for help cleaning X, upkeeping Y, mending Z, or cooking W.

I’ve been thinking about this post, enough to type all of this out, because shaming homemakers for being homemakers devalues the critical and very real work we do. I can’t say that this work is dainty or pretty, or whatever is going on Tiktok these days; I’ve been up on ladders twice my size inspecting roofs for wasps, something that probably doesn’t make its way onto influencer videos.

I know I’m not the image of a typical homemaker: I’m a lesbian weirdo who now knows a whole lot of trivia about cleaning products. But that’s the point. Homemakers come in all types of people and we work to create all types of households. The work is very real, but the rewards are real, too. Not pay, of course — and I think the unpaid nature of it all definitely contributes to how undervalued homemaking as an art and science is — but that’s where my breadwinner wife comes in, and that’s where feminism is here to advocate for us both.

Yes it’s bad to shame someone for genuinely wanting to be a housewife but I think some people on housewife tiktok severely overestimate how much people are judging them for their life choices

[chorusgirls]

an alley off a queens apartment complex, somewhere in the farthest reaches of the blue hour. ╱  @slimodd

the rain doesn’t fall, it plummets. crashes. collapses. fucking nosedives, throwing itself off the edge of the sky with all the despondency of a long time new yorker finding out his terminal illness has actually, in the end, received a cure. if there was anything holy left to find in the city, you could have called the sudden downpour biblical — but there isn’t, so you can’t. instead it’s just another unhappy thing throwing itself down onto the pavement and hoping for relief. to prove its point the sky glows blue, prevented from dropping to a full, blanketed dark by the echo of whatever the angels have gone inside to watch on tv, casting a miserable bruise of a colour through their windows and onto the world below. nobody’s watching new york tonight but remora, whose steps on the fire escape pace out the rhythm god might have had when he was young and arrogant: quick and smooth on the balls of her feet with too much hip, tugging on the leather gloves made a little tighter by the newly swelling knuckles underneath. the expansion is everywhere else in her body too, an involuntary and violently pleasurable growth. that’s how it feels to have another job done, the knife made unclean: too immense to be confined.

that’s how she sees him, full-up on adrenaline and tightening leather. there’s only a fragment of his body visible between dim light and the cover of an awning, but she knows who it is all the same: they’ve been playing connect the dots for some time now, a game built painstakingly with shell casings and a finger shoved into each others wounds for the pigment. she could find his silhouette in the dark. rem feels the irritation merge with something headier ⸺ he’s so fucking insistent on ruining her day.

“hey baby,”

she calls his attention to him with all the openness of an invitation, shoulders back, chin jutting upward. looking for me?

“you keep inviting yourself to my party — 

                      — and i’m starting to get real fuckin’ tired of kicking you out.”

[faaun]

if anyone else tries 2 argue w me abt AI and meanwhile know nothing abt philosophy or AI i will literally scream

[temenosimp]

1. I enjoyed Partitio's story a lot more than I expected to! (I started with Hikari, and also did love his, but I wish he got a little more of a response when [postgame spoilers])

2. RAI MEI IS SO COOL I LOVE HER SO MUCH

3. Temenos 3: Crackridge or Hikari 5. Honestly Ochette 3 was pretty good too, full of bangers all around

4. Choosing to interpret this as favorite crossed path: they were all really good but Hikari and Agnea was sweet

5. God, I just remember going to face the lord of the ocean or whatever a little underleveled but ready to try, and then it just ATE some of my party members!!! Very memorable. I was also screaming during the final boss because I didn't think they'd have the guts to have you use both parties

6. The one where you can only take one traveler into outside of Sai is what comes to mind, mostly because I didn't know you could remove people from the party at the tavern lol

7. Uh, idk. Each one had their place

8. The only secret job I really used was inventor

9. HIKARI APOTHECARY SUPREMACY (Agnea merchant also great)

10. Timberain, it's just so full and lively

11. Uh, the librarian one maybe? Where you have to collect From the Far Reaches of Hell, was a cute touch. Also the little terminally ill girl who's depressed and you have to bring her things to look forward to

12. Ngl, not many travel banters stuck out to me this game. All of the nicknames between characters were cute though

13. At Your Back was stuck in my head for days. Otherwise, the track for the later Leaflands towns always made me smile

14. AKALĀ SUPREMACYYYY

15. I believe it was red boat, sun sail

16. I mean, Deal More Damage can't be beat

17. ...the obvious answer is Temenos and Crick

18. More of an AU fodder, but Temenos is Kaldena's little brother and was blessed/filled with the Sacred Flame their people kept (which, among other things, gives him the Investigation Time powers)

19. Listen. I knew Temenos 3: Stormhail was coming and STILL got SO UPSET about it

20. God. Castti's backstory. Healeaks. Oof. Also, honorable mention to Throné 5 with the woman begging you to kill her newborn

21. The Hikari and Partitio Benkeis travel banter. Also, Temenos 3: Crackridge with that lady trying to seduce him when he is SO gay

22. I didn't pick up Osvald until very late. I left that man lying in the snow for months until I finished every other traveler's final chapter and then sped run his story. I don't know why, I think his was actually very good and would have been better to do slowly, but I started with him on the demo and didn't want to sit through his long-ass intro chapters again. (I also learned that if you skip the first chapter(s), the character's stained glass doesn't color fully until you do!)

23. I got so mad. At Temenos's story especially. I feel like the stories in this game focused a lot more on the NPCs associated with the characters and the travelers themselves didn't have very much character growth or development in their story. The journey for the dawn was super cool and helped but there could have been even more character interaction with the plot there, especially since the game makers can guarantee you have everyone by that point.

24. Yes, it was my favorite game. This one improved on it in almost every way, except I think for the individual character arcs as mentioned above. They responded to and improved upon criticisms well and had lots of good quality of life changes and upgrades to the game system (latent powers and NPC's Next Chapter) which I really really enjoyed. The first one is still very good for its own reasons, but I feel confident in saying this was a better game.

Octopath Traveler II ask game 🧭

Been looking for one of these since I finished the game but I haven't found one, so I made my own :3

Favorite traveler? (And if they were who you started with?)

Favorite NPC?

Favorite single chapter?

Favorite overall path?

Favorite boss fight?

Favorite optional dungeon?

Favorite default job?

Favorite secret job?

Favorite build for [character]?

Favorite town?

Favorite sidequest?

Favorite travel banter?

Favorite soundtrack?

Which companion did you choose for Ochette?

How did you customize your Grand Terry?

Did you have a That One Support Skill that you bought for every traveler?

Best relationship/dynamic between 2 characters (& elaborate!)?

A headcanon for [character]?

A moment that made you cry (or you just found sad)?

A moment that gave you chills (or you just found creepy)?

A moment that made you laugh out loud (or you just found funny)?

An amusing anecdote from your playthrough?

One thing that bugged you / you would change about the game?

Did you play the original Octopath Traveler? (And how does it compare?)

[pithyorangecurd]

oh i am looking directly at those tags. i am rotating your martin in my brain like a rotisserie chicken. low empathy martin who’s had to struggle to figure out the behaviors it takes to appear compassionate was already very close to my heart, but yours comes with all these arbitrary rules in place, this set value of himself - is it that he values himself so little that he would have a hard time respecting people who actually fall for his song and dance? or what is it?

Something about an inherited hatred.

Martin has to be the one who takes care of people because he always has. He had to take care of his terminally ill mother who hated him. Had to give up everything he could have dreamt of to take care of her; dropped out of school in his final year, got a job too early, dead end into dead end, lied his way into a position where he worked library for the next five years.

A careful mix of victims of the lonely loving the loneliness and Martin's own misconceptions and personal form of seclusion. They [victims of the lonely] hate being with other people, and they can meld into society in a way where you almost don't notice how they hate it but you can't fully get rid of it. Its an awkward discomfort that they just cant erase. And the only way Martin learned to love was through taking care of people by force.

His mother never explained things to him and it infuriated him, broke his heart. Everything would be so simple if people just talked about it. Except.

Thats not true.

It just feels like it.

How could she admit that she didn't hate Martin for anything he did, but for his face. How could she look her husband in the face and tell him how much power he still had over her after the dust settled, and the burden was left in her already sick hands. How would that explanation ever help anything, and do anything except hurt him more.

So Martin's got it in his head that the way he can make himself lovable is through being useful. Doting, past the point of discomfort. That the problem in everything is that nobody will just talk about their issues. Nevermind that the issue could very well be just that they just don't like you. If he looks in the mirror he can see the ghost of why it would be his fault they don't like him. He can understand it. It's his face. He doesn't.... smile right.

Martin who feels like if he's earnest enough the hate will break and everyone will forgive him for an imagined sin and if everyone talks it out all of their problems will work... somehow. It's how it's supposed to work. That's the rule. Thats how things are supposed to work. It infuriates him to no end that they won't do the simple work it takes to fix things when it's just words away.

But at the end of the day Martin doesn't want a conversation, there are plenty of conversations had. Martin wants this imaginary conversation where everyone has a reasonable answer that he can smile and offer a cup of tea away. And life doesn't work like that. And if it did he wouldn't like it. Wouldn't know how to react if someone gave him open affection.

The person Martin falls for is Jon.

Not kind and funny Sasha, not flirty sort of skanky Tim, not any of the people he worked with for five years before. He fell for his boss, an unattainable position, who Hates him, who goes on record to shit talk him so one can only assume how much worse Jon is to him in person. We hear him talk to Martin to recordings and he's just as unpleasant then, and full of under the breath bitchings about mistakes and insults and hints of lies hes caught Martin in. Martin chose the unattainable position that hates him that doesn't have time to get to know him and doesn't have the patience to care about his struggle. Martin found his mother in those archives.

It's very telling to Martin's character that he's the lonely because he hates people for it. He hates people, and his facade to pretend he doesn't so nobody thinks he's weird is to be the nice chipper sort of motherly a bit naggy coworker. Hard working and earnest but just messes up.

Some nice little peeks in is that Martin opens this line of dialogue, intending to fix the s2 era of jontim hatred. He's on the record as trying several times beforehand but he's never succeeded. But it's not a conversation Martin's willing to have, because it's not what he wants to hear. He's heard it before, Jon's being sketchy again, jons "stalking them" jons "acusing them of murder" jons doing this He's doing that. So what that he is. God forbid men do anything. That's no reason to have him fired.

And Tim brings up in season two that this is supernatural and Martin dismisses that as far fetched. While in the distortion.

While in season one he has this exchange with Jon.

And right after he says this to Tim he follows into THIS handsome little lead.

Martin just looking for a reason to call Tim paranoid, and that he's being ridiculous. I don't have time to find it rn but somewhere in s5 Martin and Jon try to discuss jons monster side and he digs his heels in and refuses to listen to him changing at all. If he ignores it it isn't happening. All throughout s5 Martin is doing that when he refuses to listen to the stories, refuses to listen to jons explanation of things calling him cryptic and annoying for it when that's. The real literal explanation.

Granted its the end of the world and he feels like he's losing Jon.

But MARTIN'S the one who always always always demands an explanation, a dialogue, to explain what's happening why this is happening what Jon feels about this. And hes always the one who gets mad when it's not what he wants to hear.

Martin and Jon work because Jon can't love Martin, and when he can Martin is literally the only person left for him. Just like his mother. And he still doesn't trust him. Knows Jon will lie to him, and run away to leave him behind. And hes right.

Mmm I have work in a little bit. So I don't really have time to fix this into something that makes sense. But tldr Martin is lonely coded and the way he was raised made his evasionary tactic into a love language that has never once worked and he hides behind that.