#only solace is that i was fucking right when i pictured them holding the flag like a shared cape. called it

[fridayyy-13th]

so how are we feeling phannies. i for one am just great.

[laurfilijames]

Wish You Were Here

Pairing: Will 'Ironhead' Miller x reader

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: Angst. Mentions of death and brief descriptions of war. Intimate flashbacks.

Summary: Sleep deprivation begins to take its toll on Will, leaving him distressed and emotional as he thinks about being back home with you.

A/N: This is sad and it hurt my heart to write but I needed to do it so I can go back to writing fluffy filth!

---

The numbers usually calmed him, gave him something sturdy and finite to focus on, but tonight they taunted him.

Each second that turned into a minute was a cruel reminder of all the ones he had spent awake, and no matter how exhausted he was and how physically ill he felt from the sleep he was being starved of, his mind and body refused it.

It had been days without more than a few minutes of rest at a time, only accumulating to a small number of hours that wasn’t enough to sustain anybody, and another wave of nausea set in as the effects of it all started to become too much.

It was moments like this that he missed you even more. The hurt in his heart turned physical, a relentless ache for you that the pains in his body couldn’t compare to.

Will sighed heavily, trying everything he could to cope with the insanity he felt over it, but it was growing to be unbearable, his limits tested like the few times they had before. He wondered as he took another deep inhale - his empty stomach filling with air - if he was waking anyone up in his distress, constantly shifting where he sat on the cold ground to try to feel even an ounce of comfort, his breathing louder than the wind howling around them, but it was stupid to think anyone else was able to slip into the solace of sleep at this point. No one was snoring and everyone was still, lacking the relaxed twitches that came when rest took control of your body, and he thought how the only members of their company who were resting peacefully were the ones going home to their families accompanied by a folded flag.

Home.

He blew out another shaky breath, closing his burning eyes so he was able to picture it in his tormented mind.

Your alarm would be about to go off, the early dawn still covering your bedroom in darkness right before the sun appeared to kiss your skin with its orange glow instead of his lips, your side of the bed cold as your body favoured his spot to be the one that was kept warm. You would no doubt have one of his t-shirts on and your head would be on his pillow, gripping it tightly as if it was him, trying to capture a bit of him that was left behind from the last time he was there with you.

Will found a little relief in these thoughts, knowing you were safe and out of harm's way, although he wasn’t naive enough to think you weren’t spending each moment worried and anxious for his safety.

Another inhale, slower this time, eyes still screwed shut as if the tighter he closed them the further he would be from this brutal reality.

He can hear the hum of the fan that sits on your dresser and is aimed at your bed, the sound ingrained in his mind from keeping both of you cool in the humidity night after night, and he can almost smell the scent of your heated skin, the familiarity of it making his mouth water, the desperation he feels to be able to hold you making him want to smile and scream all at once.

Fuck, he wished you were here.

Will flashed open his eyes. No. He couldn’t dream of placing you in this hell and exposing you to all the evil he had witnessed.

He shifted his legs, closing his eyes again as tears sprung up in them, the wet boots on his feet feeling more intolerable than usual.

Another inhale, then exhale.

He sighed again, imagining he’s back in your room, crawling into fresh sheets after showering, tangling his naked limbs with yours, your fingertips dancing up and down along his arm and back and softly over his face until his breathing continues to happen without him thinking about it and his mind is temporarily void of all he holds onto.

In the distance, the boom of an air raid sounds, rumbling and shaking the ground with a trembling force, bringing him out of his dream.

His muscles felt incredibly heavy, beyond tired and depleted of any strength, and he replaced the reasons why they were with how wonderful his body always felt after pouring every bit of energy he had into loving you, the satisfaction in expending all of his power into your pleasure comparable to nothing else.

A stray tear rolled down his cheek as his breathing grew quicker, thinking how he would do just about anything to be with you right now, even for the briefest of moments. Everything was more tolerable when he was with you, no demons too big to face, the strength you had admirable and extended over to him by simply being in your proximity. Sleep was something that never came easy to him, but at least when he was with you he was engulfed in a comforting embrace that gave him some rest and repose.

He brushed the wet away with his thumb, his heart clenching in his chest while his throat restricted, knowing if you were here you would kiss each tear away and sit quietly with him until his mind gave him some reprieve.

Will sunk his chin down into the collar of his jacket, rubbing his mouth back and forth on the material, the smell of sweat, rain and stale blood that he didn’t know was his or not filling his nostrils with a pungency he struggled to get used to.

A huff that bordered on being a laugh came from him, thinking how ironic it was that the night before he deployed he hadn’t slept either, choosing instead to spend every second he had making love to you over and over while the time was available to him, each time never enough, and he thought how he would sacrifice sleep for the rest of his life if it meant he could share nights like that with you again.

He licked his lips, trying to get some moisture onto them and rid them of the stinging, chapped feeling and then pressed them together, recalling how it felt to have them hydrated and wet from yours, imagining the sensation of your skin under them as he peppered countless kisses on your body, something he could only describe as being the closest he could ever get to heaven while he sat in the threshold of hell.

Will had vowed when he left that morning that he would never leave you again after this mission, and he would stay true to that promise, deeming it completely impossible to carry on like this while knowing everything he needed to live and survive was half the world away.

Until then, he would tick off every minute, hour and day, counting them down until he was holding you in his wearied arms again, and hoped he could at least pass some of them with sleep, the gravity of needing to be alert and focused in order to make it back to you sitting heavily on his shoulders.

He untucked his arms from across his chest, tugging up the sleeve on his left one to check his watch, feeling a little more hopeful that he was one hour closer to that goal.

---

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@sotwk @dailydragon08 @sunnys-day @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls

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[pynches]

the five stages of grief

a/n this is a very personal story to me. ive dealt with a lot of grief, way more than i should have, in a short period of time so i figured it would help to write about it. this is a friendship-centric fic so no relationships happening. i hope you still like it.

tw: mention of child abuse but it’s only a sentence mention, loss of a parent

word count: 1927

ao3 link

The biggest misconception about grief is that you feel it right away. That the moment you hear someone  you once loved died, you break down, sobbing on the floor from the pain you cannot hold in. We’ve seen the movies, read the books, watched the tv shows and how grief was portrayed in them.

It’s a lie.

This is how it goes.

The police calls Adam at 5:37 pm, something about an accident his mom got into and his father who cannot be reached. Adam stopped listening after the first words, “I’m sorry to tell you but”. The resignation in the police officer’s voice  was enough.

Dead on impact.

No revival possible.

And that was it.

There were no tears when he told the police that he would be there soon. No tears when he had to identify his mother’s body not even an hour later so he could sign the papers.

“It’s hers,” he told them.

And that was it.

Adam still went to school despite the school counsellor telling him that it wasn’t required. He lost a parent after all. He was tired of the concern thrown around though. The pity in the counsellors eyes, the pity in Gansey’s. Ronan was the only one who treated him semi-normally and even he was more careful with Adam than usual. Adam couldn’t blame him, though, he lost a parent too after all. But Adam did blame him, for not treating him like nothing happened even though something did, for making him feel like there was something different even though there was.

Truth was, Adam didn’t feel like something happened, didn’t feel like his mother was well and truly gone. He pictured himself opening the door of the trailer and seeing her bent  over the stove like she often was, or cleaning up after his father which happened even more often. He felt like he could pick up the phone to call her and hear her familiar voice on the other end.

There is bliss in denial, it makes everything hurt less.

The funeral was his job to organise. His friends had tried to help with sad half-smiles and pats on his arm. Adam didn’t feel anything. No sadness, no anger, but no happiness either. The emptiness inside him was all-consuming and nothing was left behind.

He picked the music and used his mom’s hidden savings to pay for the costs so that his father couldn’t drink it away. His throat tightened when they lowered her casket into the ground and filled the hole with dirt, his eyes full of unshed tears.

Adam swallowed.

And that was it.

Denial was out of the question now. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his mother’s body, one that held so much life before, too much for the small trailer in which it had been contained.

Now it was anger’s turn to rear its ugly head.

This particular emotion was one Adam had tried to avoid his entire life. It just reminded him of bruises and wounds that never truly healed. His father instilled fear upon him when he got lost in his own anger and Adam tried to ensure he would not do the same to anyone else.

Until he did.

Until he saw a woman cross the road from his booth inside Nino’s, her hair the same dirty blonde his mother had passed down to him.

Until he rushed outside because it was his mom and she was there and despite every phone call she didn’t make to the police and despite every time she turned her head when he was lying in a pool of his own blood. Adam wanted to rush into her arms and feel them wrap around him like she had done when he was younger and the world was less cruel.

Until the woman picked up her phone, her voice high and sweet unlike his mom’s, rough from years of chain smoking and yelling at him.

Until Adam stopped in his tracks, watching as the woman walked away, unknowing that she snapped something inside him that had been coiled up since the first ring of his phone.

Until he punched a wall.

Until Blue came rushing out of Nino’s. She kept a safe distance from Adam’s balled fists, probably on Gansey’s orders.

Adam walked away with his knuckles scratched and bruised, disappearing into the evening.

The only thing he left behind was his blood smearing the now stained wall, an almost literal red flag that warned people to stay away from him.

He didn’t stay to wipe the hopelessness from his friends’ faces. He walked away before he did worse.

And that was it.

Adam never visited the church he lived above. He wasn’t religious but sometimes, when people feel the defeat clawing at their throats, they search for miracles everywhere. They look for signs that would indicate their loved ones were still alive, even if it was just the wind that had slammed the door closed. They search for meaning in death, finding solace in the thought that it wasn’t for nothing, even though it was and always will be. They pray to gods they didn’t believe in so that they could fool themselves into thinking someone was listening.

Adam had his hands clasped in front of him awkwardly, not used to the position. He wasn’t sure how to begin a prayer and he wished he had googled it but that somehow seemed insincere. So, he closed his eyes, clenched his hands tighter, and begged.

“I will live at home again if it means you will bring her back.”

He sat on the same pew, every night before he went to bed, when the church was dark and empty, praying to God, to someone that her death could be reversed.

It never happened.

And that was it.

We’ve seen the movies, read the books, watched the tv shows and the way guilt was portrayed in them. Guilt as an instant reaction, guilt as a way of making up for years of neglect, guilt as an excuse for the police. Guilt as something you can live with.

It’s not true.

This is how it feels.

It sneaks up on you quietly. One minute you’re making canned soup on your shitty stove and the next you’re on the floor. Not quite crying. You can’t yet. But you feel the burn in your throat that has now become a constant, the shaking of your hands, the rapid pounding of your heart.

“If you had still lived in that trailer,” the voice in your head tells you. “You could have prevented this.”

That’s how it starts and it never really ends.

Adam puts his books in his locker and exchanges them for the ones he needs for the next two periods.

“It’s your fault she’s dead.”

He drops the book on the floor, not looking at Ronan when he hands them back without a word.

He fist-bumps Gansey when he takes his usual seat next to him but he can’t focus on Gansey’s nervous rambling. It feels like the entire classroom is staring at him, mumbling the thing he had told himself over and over last night before sleep took him.

“It should have been you.”

And that was it.

The emptiness feels deeper this time.

There was no way of explaining this feeling, the world didn’t have the words to describe it and they really shouldn’t.

The days feel longer, seemingly going on forever. Adam feels like he is in a haze, sadness clouding his rational mind.

Adam is independent. Always has been. He learned not to seek comfort from other people because it would just result in disappointment. Instead, he taught himself to hold it in, every emotion that he didn’t want, he would just let go.

It doesn’t work like that.

When he was a kid and his father started to drink more, he would seek the comfort of his mom and she would give it to him. She would hold him close and brush through his hair with her hand. Back then, she always faintly smelled of fresh grass. He cannot even remember what she smells like now and he hates himself for it. But he does remember her gentle touch, her lightly freckled arms closing around him, his face in her neck.

Adam is independent. Learned to be that way. But right now, he needed his mom.

One person cannot bear the constant weight of grief on their shoulders. One day they will succumb under the weight and it will either crush them or they will have people who stop it from happening.

Once the intense sadness hits, people don’t go to a bar and drink until they forget their own name. It’s not like the movies, books, or tv shows.

It’s wrong.

It happens like this.

Gansey persuaded him into coming to Monmouth and help the group with their research. And it’s fine, it’s good. Until it’s not.

Because the word “dead” seems highlighted on every page even though Adam knows it’s not. Because death is his only focus, not Gansey’s voice or Ronan’s grumbles or Noah’s quiet snickers or Blue sighing. Because suddenly his knees buckle and he’s dry heaving on the floor, the pressure in his chest growing, his heart pounding in his ears. He can’t hear Ronan calling his name, he can’t feel Gansey holding him up. The tears are flowing down his cheeks and it will not stop no matter how hard Adam is pressing on his eyes. He can’t breathe and everything feels off and he wants to claw his skin of just so it doesn’t fucking hurt anymore. He can feel himself hiccup, can hear himself gasp but he cannot do anything but curl in on himself and try to stop the sobs from overtaking his body.

And then Ronan cradles his head against his neck like his mom used to.

And Gansey slings an arm over his shoulders, holding him tightly.

And Blue rakes her fingers through his hair in soft motions.

And Noah wipes his tears away.

And he cries.

He lets himself fall apart in the arms of his friends. For the first time since it happened, he feels like it’s okay that he’s not okay. That he can let himself go and feel this in the safety of his friends’ embrace. They take in his heaving sobs and return whispers of encouragement. They make him eat something because he had forgotten and make him drink water when his head is pounding. They stay with him when he eventually falls asleep, in the middle of a pile of his friends, not knowing where his body began and theirs ended.

And that was not it.

Because grief doesn’t go away, ever. Not even with the help of kind friends. There will always be a hole inside of you that the person left behind. Sometimes the anger will return, at them for leaving you, at yourself for letting them go, at the world for being so unfair. And sometimes the guilt will return because there will be moments when you won’t be thinking about them and smiling and laughing instead only to come home and fall apart because you feel guilty for feeling good. And sometimes, during the rare moments that become less rare over time, you will just smile at the memories and accept that even though you will never get over the fact that they are truly gone, this is your life now, and you shouldn’t stop living it.

[imagine-a-killingharmony]

Drunk V3 Boys!

How about a s/o that has to deal with the v3 boys getting super drunk and then the after math of how is the hangover. ( bonus points if drunk kokichi says the " Finland" spongebob meme) please and ty

Quickly, just imagine them as adults like I am- underage drinking is a big fat “no”, look at me being an... dork. But anyway In the less dork-part let’s say this... I’m literally a giant mess who hasn’t ever been drunk or anything, I don’t really know the effects so we’re going to use those anime-type-of-drunk which is very likely VERY inaccurate or... somewhat-realistic I don’t know. But woah.

Kiibo (Error! Error! Overheating!)

After coming back from his last check-up from Miu you were expecting to be cuddled up close with Kiibo on the couch, watching nextflix- some cheesy Disney movie which you’ve already seen thousands of time before... that’s what you thought....

Till Kiibo walked in adjusted by an trembling Miu who had her arm slung around him, she looked down on the verge of tears muttering about being “so disrespected”, Kiibo sluggishly rolls his head up bursts of steam expanded from every inch of his body.

“... U... Uuuh... there was a function I added inside of em’ to test some booze I was plannin’ on drinking... it was... uh... successful but... J-Just take him- I don’t want to be fuckin’ called out anymore!”

Miu threw Kiibo in your direction running back from once she came, wiping at her eyes as she whined about “how mean” he was... you could only watch Kiibo stir awake, nervousness pricked at your stomach as you realized she made Kiibo try an alcoholic... BEVERAGE!

“... (S/O)?” Kiibo glances up at you, blinking once or twice as he took in his surroundings, you asked if he was okay- he groggily nodded his head. “Never better (S/O)... but... Miu... I-I was just telling her about how stupid it is that she puts herself down almost all the time when she has a brilliant mind, then her very inappropriate attitude- which she presents herself to cover up that wall of self-esteem issues she has... Ah... then there was me getting onto the fact that most people are uncomfortable with the sexual intuendos she has- and for some odd reason before I could say anymore she dragged me here...”

“... I rebooted on the way... once or twice...”

“... what.” Oh. Oh my god... He... What? Kiibo said that?

“... Yes... Hey (S/O) actually I-I have some things to say about you too, look me in the eyes, look at me right now please...” Kiibo cups your face, he looks you right in the eyes, those aren’t the soft loving eyes you know- those are eyes that... are going to fucking destroy you.

Kiibo holds your face tight, escape is impossible, he sluggishly rolls his head as a soft frown falls on his face.

“... You have your errors yourself actually... like... how you...”

...

...

You failed... you are absolutely burnt, just turned into soot by the end of his rant, he’s just sleeping peacefully under the blankets that you had gotten for “cuddle night”, you don’t feel soft at all- you just feel absolutely WRECKED.

Shuichi Saihara (Sad Drunk)

You had both gone out on a party together, specifically a reunion with your classmates which Kokichi was hosting... which already sported red flags but you all didn’t question it, that is until people started to drop like flies... people who drank the punch specifically dropped like flies.

Kaede asked who made the punch... when the relevation that it was Miu and Kokichi themselves it all fell into place like a puzzle, they spiked the goddamn punch.

One of the victims... happened to be Shuichi, a light-weight he hugged your arm tightly slurring and whirling, tears fell down his face as he cried and sobbed about the world.

“... (S-S-S/O!) It’s no fair... I-Iiiii never did anything wrong so why does everything hafta’ be against meeeee...? *hic* it’s unfair.... unfairunfairunfair!”

It’s the fifth time you pat his back, he leans in for a better hold of you so you can give him more affection, he loves that so please do go on, he lets out a slurred hiccup.

“... (S-S/O) a... aaare you seeing anyone...? You always were soooo pretty... and... aaand niiiiice... *hic* and... aaand it make me really happy... I-Iiii wanted to date you since forever ago...”

... How drunk is he to forget the two of you are already dating? “I am.”

Shuichi’s eyes widen, he presses himself up against you with an wail as he starts to cry harder. “Of course yu are- H-Hic- I’m NOT CRYINGF.”

You can’t help but to wonder how he’ll feel in the morning, for now you try to give your poor drunk boyfriend solace as you explain how the two of you are already well- dating.

Luckily, Shuichi falls asleep on your lap while you comfort him, the tears having tired him out... he put his hands around your waist, he bids the world “night night”.

Ryoma Hoshi (Excitable Drunk)

Ryoma wasn’t a heavy drinker, actually he had never drank an drop of the stuff ever, prison doesn’t allow those sort of luxuries, besides he just didn’t want to ruin his reputation by drinking at about fifteen or some shit.

So... he was old enough, the two of you were going on a date here... he’d was just chugging the stuff considering he wanted to see how it tasted, which was rather gross under further consideration... but what he happened to pick up is that he wasn’t feeling all that woozy... guess he ain’t no light-weight.

But he sure ain’t no god, it takes about three whole damn bottles for the effects to start to shine.

...It takes five whole damn bottles for him to actually feel anything, you kept a close eye on your boyfriend as he put the second bottle down with a huff, wiping at his mouth with a “wew”!

“... That was uh, gross taste, heh.” Ryoma pulled his hat up, his cheeks flush slightly pink as he looked around. “Hey. Hey (S/O) you gorgeous son of a bitch look at me.” As soon as you even give him your attention he fingerguns.

... Ryoma wobbly pulls himself up, he doesn’t look like he’ll trip, honestly somehow he still has his balance as he takes your hand.

“... Oh my god I just had an amazing idea. We should adopt,,, a lot of cats,,, not like,,, any cats,,, but... buuuut like an shop full of them,,, and name each of them something silly...” Ryoma’s eyes sparkle deviously. “... Or... like... like... steal everybody’s cats... so we remain the supreme leaders of feline...”

“... Ryoma... do... do you feel tired? Want to take a nap, as amazing ideas as these sound I don’t think your in the right state of mind for... this.” If you let any of this happen, Ryoma’s going to hate himself in the morning.

“I know what I’m doing... I have a license... gimme a sec...” Ryoma pulls out a piece of paper, writes on it, flips it to reveal in sloppy handwriting: “I knwo wat Im do”

You try to survey his features after writing that, all he does is shoot his fingerguns at you.

...Okat you honestly need to take a few pictures of this to show Ryoma later oh my god he’s wobbling towards the door to bring one of those plans he’s mentioned to full-glory, you locked the door for Ryoma, his drunken brain can’t comprehend how to use a step-ladder. You just go to get him some water...

Kaito Momota (... Tired Drunk)

Kaito wouldn’t drink... much, sure, he would totally forge an certificate to like- well, go to space but that was for a good cause! Stuff like drinking was meant to be done for special events and shit otherwise you might get hooked!

And he didn’t actually mean to get drunk on you! He promised he just... kind of mistook the wine in the fridge as the grape panta, he was thirsty- and really fucking tired! Okay? He didn’t expect when he chugged the whole bottle down for the world to... to... hnnnnnn... what’s the word...?

It took a while for you to notice anything was amiss, Kaito had taken himself out of the room to “go get a drink” then he still never came back, so you went to check on your boyfriend to see if he still hadn’t gotten anything, needed some help.

What you didn’t expect to see was Kaito Momota Luminary of the Stars on the floor looking back up at the ceiling mindlessly, with that bottle of wine held tightly in his hands.

“... D... Doo... yu... think it’d be a bd idea if I trie... tried to take a np here? Jst... slep untl a hangover fcks me the hell up, everything hur ts.”

... Oh god! That’s even more errors than usual, so it’s likely on purpose! Kaito’s DRUNK!

You go to get some water for him in the fridge, Kaito’s still looking at the ceiling talking to himself slightly hushed, you don’t know what he’s thinking but he looks like he’s having an ephiphany about the world.

“Holy... Hly sht (S/O) I jst realized how fuckin... weird that Shuichi’s hair stands up like that... he doesn’t use anything to make it like that so how.”

“... Kaito I don’t think your in the right state of mind to make choices like that...” You offer some water to him, his eyes widen.

“Why... Why is everyone’s hair dyed- Like is it actually dyed? Or is it just natural- how can it be natural tho... unless... oh my god (S/O)... we’re in an anime I can’t believe it.”

“Kaito I think you need an second...”

“No. No I know what I’m sayin- oh my god we’re the main characters in some weird anime (S/O)... that’s the only explanation,,, I have to tell... Tsumugi but my legs won’t work nn nn n n..”

... You just pat his head, Kaito grimaces... he was absolutely wasted so everything he said held no inch of truth in it, you just hoped that soon enough your efforts to help him better bare fruit... So he doesn’t make anymore odd claims like him and his friends are in some “weird anime”!

Winks at the fourth wall.

Rantaro Amami (Immune System Of God)

Rantaro... wasn’t a drinker... well besides those really fancy drinks that he usually saw when you both got out, those always looked like a magical experience to try out so he usually did buy those but... he’s never actually gotten legitimately “drunk”, it may be because he never drinks too much.

Then there was the time that had asked Rantaro if he had ever gotten in all words actually “drunk” he responded with a shrug: “I guess I do...? Uh, I’m usually in the right state of mind afterwards still... enough to walk...”

... This was a topic which needed much more exploration... so you went out to a bar together, you swore that anything he got was on you... he squinted but still he bought some colorful drinks in funny-looking cups, peering towards you while he did...

...

He wasn’t actually drunk even after drinking quite a bit, what is this man, how is his immune system keeping him awake? Rantaro chuckles... “Yeah, I think that’s enough for tonight.. come on let’s go home.”

You either failed or this task is just impossible, you take the hand he offers you and walk outside with him... the only noticeable effect are the times he almost bumps into the wall but other than that... nothing...

He knows how to hold his liquor...

Gonta Gokuhara (Clumsy Drunk)

This was Kokichi’s fault, that’s all you know... he offered something for Gonta, that’s what he told you when he gave you back a stumbling crying boyfriend.

“... How did you even get him to drink this- oh my god! Gonta- baby please go lay down on the couch...” You led Gonta to the couch to sit down, he sobbed loudly into the pillow almost falling off, you gave a harsh glare to the Supreme Leader who chuckled at your displeasure.

“I told him it was “Respect Women Juice! TM! Yeah he really just drank it without an inch of hesitance...! Then he fell over drunk, it was hilarious till I had to actually bring him here.”

Gonta let out another loud sob as he fell over off the couch onto the floor, crying about how “Gonta caaaan’t see...!!!”

“You... are one screwed up... mess of a person Kokichi Ouma...” Pushing Gonta back onto the couch you tried to reassure him everything was alright, Kokichi grinned at you putting both of his hands behind the of his head.

“Oh I know... I know really quite well! Good luck dealing with him!”

Kokichi left the two of you alone together, you just let Gonta cry against you about how everything felt so weird... offering some water and some hugs, you’ll get revenge at Kokichi for this... you swear to it.

Kokichi Ouma (Angry Drunk)

... How... Who the hell had enough of your boyfriend to go and make him chug down so much alchohol he got drunk, god knows, but he was now... here... and slurring about some criticisms you didn’t know he had...

“Like... (S/O) it’s so stupid... instead of like... liiiike... getting mad at me when I insult her she usually gets off on it... it’s so gross,,, like how horny can somebody be (S/O)? How HORNY can you be?”

“... Kokichi... do you need a...” Despite how you tried to chime in he always cut you off, with a half-awake grumble...

“No... No let me say this... Hiiiii... iii... so... so what the hell is with Kaito’s sense of logic....? I know, know for a fact he CAN be stupid enough to literally TRUST everybody he meets, like even if there’s hard proof that their an asshole he’s STILL by their side... what the FUCK.”

“Are you talking about Maki?”

“SHE LITERALLY CHOKED ME ONCE YES, Y ES I MEAN MAKI...!” Kokichi touches his neck, rubbing at it. “Honestly... Maki is such a damn... damn jerk... seriously... she’s made “do you want to die” her punchline to almost any jokes she makes, we get it, your edgy as hell!”

While Kokichi grumbled the both of you didn’t notice the door quietly open up... nor did you notice it until their footsteps were in the right range for you to notice them...

Maki trails into the room with an sweating Kaito Momota by her side, she held a card in her hand with the words: “sorry for making you chug beer” in a rather sloppy handwriting...

“... Makiroll, don’t do this...-“ The astronaut tried to stop the caregiver but it was too late, she was already sprinting towards Kokichi to land a finishing blow...!

“FINLAND!”

[To be continued (But not really)]

Korekiyo Shinguuji (Beutifial,,, ohbnn)

How did he actually... get like this, well you honestly swear to god you don’t know, he just appeared at your doorstep muttering about how beautiful humanity was... in so much typos it was almost impossible to decipher a word of what he said...

“... Korekiyo do... you want some water?”

“... hdhdbnnkklllllln.” Korekiyo press his head against the pillow lethargically, he groaned afterwords grasping at his stomach.

“... Is... Is that a yes? A maybe? A... no?”

“... nnnnnnnnnnz.”

“No it is! No it is...”

“Okay! So do you want to um... take a nap?”

“... nbcbxzzz.”

Well. Well you can’t decipher any of this mess, picking yourself up you go to the kitchen to try and take in all that’s happened today...

“... I’ll just get that water anyway...” You pray to whatever god that exists... to please... pleasepleaseplease never have Korekiyo get drunk again.

[photographerguide-blog]

Photography legend Joel Meyerowitz: phones killed the sexiness of the street

New Post has been published on https://photographyguideto.com/must-see/photography-legend-joel-meyerowitz-phones-killed-the-sexiness-of-the-street/

Photography legend Joel Meyerowitz: phones killed the sexiness of the street

He chased parades, ambushed hairdressers and refused to leave Ground Zero. Over PG Tips and ricotta at his Tuscan barn, Joel Meyerowitz relives his most stunning shots

One day 55 years ago, Joel Meyerowitz was roaming the streets of his native New York with a 35mm camera when he glimpsed something through an arcade window that stopped him in his tracks. A young woman was standing with her back to him, tenderly grooming her boyfriends pompadour with a comb, just as Meyerowitz imagined she had curled the hair of dolls when she was a girl.

As we sit in front of the log fire in his converted barn in Tuscany in the February dusk, Meyerowitz remembers what happened next. I snuck up as close as I could and tried to capture the intimacy of that moment. I was very shy and it took all my courage if the plate glass hadnt been there, maybe I wouldnt have dared get so close. In the resulting print, the boy glances from the shadows into the camera with furrowed brow, a moment of pure vulnerability that a split second later might have curdled into rage at Meyerowitzs intrusion. And, just possibly, the photographer might have got his ass kicked.

Tender grooming New York City, 1962.

This was one of the American street photographers first images. Whats striking about it is not so much the bravura seizing of the moment. Cartier-Bresson, after all, had already made his name doing that and Meyerowitz was following the Frenchmans lead. Rather, it was that the seized moment was in colour. In art photography, there was still this huge prejudice against colour as if only black and white were aesthetically justifiable, he recalls. I never bought that: for me colour is essential; I instinctively felt I needed it to give my work force. Just as we have smell memories, we have colour memories. I mean the world is in colour, right?

Meyerowitz was seduced into photography earlier that year when, as a young art director, he witnessed an ad agency shoot by the great American photographer Robert Frank for a booklet he was designing. The way he weaved in and out of the girls he was shooting, my God, that was a revelation to me. You could move while working the camera. Wow! I wanted to do that, too.

Until that epiphany, Meyerowitz hadnt been sure what he wanted to do with his life. He was studying part time for a masters in art history and dabbling in abstract painting. After seeing Frank at work, however, he went back to the ad agency office that afternoon and quit. Harry, my boss, couldnt believe me. Later, though, he bought me a camera.

How much is that tiger in the window? New York City, 1975

From the start, Meyerowitz and fellow street photographer and friend Garry Winogrand sought to explore the erotics of the street: The heat of the gazes between people, the charged mystery that arises from capturing chance moments on the fly, he says.

In his new autobiographical photography book Where I Find Myself, Meyerowitz writes of those heady days: We loved watching the play of light on Fifth Avenue and how it gave meaning to things. We watched the seasons change and with it womens clothing getting lighter and sexier. We were living and breathing photography We felt we were part of a movement that was making photography more interesting than it ever was before.

But first he had to overcome his shyness. He did this with his initial project taking shots of bystanders at street parades. Nobody thinks theres anything odd about a photographer at a parade, so that gave me invisibility. One particularly successful image taken in New York in 1963 depicts a relaxed, smiling, cardigan-wearing African American man standing with his dog on the pavement next to a tightly wound white man in a suit who is holding his hand to his heart and glaring past the black man.

Seize the chance moments New York City, 1963.

Hes saluting the flag thats off camera, explains Meyerowitz. Its a superbly unresolved image but sets up all kinds of dual tensions black/white, genial/fraught, patriotic/not so much. You need to get on the streets and seize the chance moments, he says.

Of his street images, my favourite depicts a Frenchman who has fallen outside a Paris Mtro station one day in 1967. By this stage, Meyerowitz had started to take longer shots moving back from eight to 20 feet from what he sought to capture. Its a shift from chamber music to symphony. Everybody is looking at the fallen man, the chic young woman descending the station steps, the delivery guy pushing boxes on a trolley, a cyclist swivelling to get a better look at a strangers misfortune. A worker in overalls even steps over the prone man, carrying a hammer that takes on sinister import. Those fuckers, laughs Meyerowitz. Not one of them helps him up.

The image is an absorbing network of gazes and furtive glances. In the 60s and 70s you could look at my street photographs and trace lines from the eyes of people connecting with other peoples eyes, setting up these force fields.

As exotic as a tropical fish Sarah, Provincetown, Massachusetts, 1981

Today, what entranced Joel Meyerowitz about the street is all but dead. Nobodys looking at each other. Everybodys glued to their phones. But street photography still exists? Its thriving but not in the way I used to do it. The best street photographers now show humans dwarfed by ad billboards. The street has lost its savour.

As his work evolved, Meyerowitz became a tougher, indomitable street presence, and yet one like the best photographers able to charm his subjects into giving him what he wants. You can see that in the way he got swimsuited young women to pose guilelessly near his summer home in Provincetown, Massachusetts, for a series of early 80s pictures that prefigured Rineke Dijkstras similar subject matter. How, for instance, he inveigles a red-headed young woman as exotic as a tropical fish to pose for his camera, exposing her freckled arms.

You can see this process most clearly, though, in the pictures Meyerowitz took at Ground Zero. On 9/11 he was out of town, but headed home bent on the idea of photographing the aftermath. When I got to Ground Zero, I had my Leica out and then I got a thump in the back from a cop. They said: You cant take a picture here, buddy, this is a crime scene. Well, I argued with them its a public space, my city, I can do what the fuck I want. And I did.

His subsequent photo essay was a charged memorial to the grandiosity of the ruin, and the people who worked in it, hunting for teeth, bones, anything that might identify victims. The care they invested in this task brought to the vast physical dimensions of the site an intimate, spiritual dimension, he says.

Smoke Rising in Sunlight, New York City, 2001

The following spring, he was in Italy. The world had changed because of 9/11 and so when I saw the thousands of years of continuous cultivation of Tuscan landscape, it was great solace. In Where I Find Myself, Meyerowitz juxtaposes photographs of Ground Zero with the cypresses and fields of Tuscany theres a spiritual dimension to these rural images, too, a renewal by means of natural goodness in the aftermath of evil.

Today, the photographer has definitively swapped the street for the farm, the Bronx for a home in the hills south of Siena. He and his English second wife, the novelist Maggie Barrett, have spent the past four years converting a barn to a rural retreat. Weve uprooted from everything and settled here without family or much in the way of friends, but with each other. Its an experiment in intimacy. We drink tea (his wifes PG Tips) and he serves me week-old ricotta made by the farmer who lives next door.

Meyerowitz has described his urban photography as jazz, a sinuous dance through the streets with a handheld camera. Only later in his career did he add landscape to his repertoire. It happened in Provincetown in the late 70s. I moved every summer to somewhere where life was simple and I started to see differently. And what I saw, I needed to capture with a view camera, an 8×10 camera. With that you dont riff, you dont do jazz. You do what it tells you. So what was the appeal? Everything was rendered with this incredible visual acuity. It blew me away. His Bay/Sky series from the late 70s and early 80s, in particular, purge humans for the essentials of sky, sea and land.

Longnook Beach, Truro, Massachusetts, 1985.

For the past four years, Meyerowitz has retreated from the world into his studio, where he has been photographing humble objects hes picked up from Provenal brocantes and Tuscan junk shops. His work, he thinks, riffs on Czanne and Giorgio Morandis still lifes. Im obsessed with these pictorial puzzles. He started with two or three objects and has now moved on to grand arrangements that remind me of the complicated positioning of humans in his street photos.

Bald, sinewy (half a lifetime ago he missed becoming a US Olympic swimmer by thousandths of a second), and brimming with life, Meyerowitz turns 80 on 6 March. Any plans to retire, I ask, as he shows me out? Artists dont retire. We just move on to new creative obsessions. Well, thats what I do.

Joel Meyerowitz: Where I Find Myself is published by Laurence King on 12 March.

Read more: http://www.theguardian.com/us