#turns out selling your soul and what makes your work interesting for the sake of chasing trends is uh

[asha-mage]

It turns out that classic RPGs aren't dead. But Dragon Age sure is.

[lunaprincipessa]

ENTRY FIFTY-NINE

It's always interesting when someone asks me what it's like working in the cannabis industry.

The first thing I mention is being at the age of 41 and never thinking it would be possible back in the day. If I could go back in time and tell my younger self that someday I'd be selling legal weed, I probably wouldn't have believed it! I'm still adjusting to the legality somewhat, but it has been so exciting not only interviewing for cannabis jobs but working them as well.

The interviews are awesome because instead of hiding it and hoping they never find out, you get to talk to the employer about your passion for cannabis and cannabis products. I've been in the cannabis industry for 3 years. I've done multiple interviews for cannabis jobs and they're always fun and exciting.

Working the job has been an amazing experience for the most part. Most of the clientele is pretty chill but every now and then you get a Karen or two. It is still customer service and retail after all. However, knowing the medicinal patient successfully treated their pain and stress, knowing the recreational patient had a safe and fun-filled evening makes it beyond worth it.

Then there's this little part...

😱 Being middle-aged and going back to retail (yes it's medical but a dispensary is still like a store in the way that you have similar responsibilities like cleaning and making sales for example). 😱

My first career path was to become a forensic psychologist. Long story short, I got screwed over by student loans and couldn't continue my education beyond my Masters of Science in Psychology, which merely provided a foundation for the ultimate goal I was attempting to work toward.

Once I knew I was officially done, that there were no more classes, no way to afford to keep going in college, no way to achieve what I already worked so hard for, I wanted a job I'd enjoy to ease the sting of dead dreams and crippling debt.

I wanted a job that would be good for the mind, heart, and soul even if it wasn't good for the wallet. I'm just so done with working my ass off at jobs that make me miserable on a daily basis.

Can I enjoy at least one thing in life? Can I at least start to live MY life for ME a little bit?

My only other occupational interest besides forensic psychology was cannabis. I have been using cannabis medicinally to help with my ADHD and C-PTSD. I also use it to help with redecoration, art projects, lots of other things aside from medical treatment. I thought, "I can still help other people, just in a different way now."

So that's why I am a middle-aged woman working in retail. My original plan didn't pan out and I wanted to do something I'd enjoy. We can't all be doctors, lawyers, famous actresses, or heirs to huge fortunes. Some of us are worker bees that need to find a job. And if I am going to be stuck working for the rest of my days, especially since my generation may not have anything to retire on, then I am going to need to be in a place that I don't dread for the sake of sanity.

And so, here we are! I'm a budtender. This is the career path I chose after the first one didn't work out. It's been quite an experience so far. Entering the industry, meeting all the characters in it, sampling different kinds of products, it's been fun! And currently, I am learning and sharpening my skills as a purchasing manager to my favorite dispensary in town of all places!

However, I have complaints. Two of them.

Complaint One:

We all want to hire the right people. We all want to bring on people that will be honest, reliable, and who will take the job seriously. Totally get that. BUT that won't be achieved through making the industry impossible to get into. It took me over a year to get my foot in the door! It is a little disappointing if the person doesn't have experience but how are they supposed to gain experience if no one gives them a chance to do so? Be willing to train! You might be turning away a great potential employee for a completely fixable reason!

Complaint Two:

I wish when legalization hit that the hippies had the money to invest. This is cannabis, weed, ganja, tree, Mary Jane! This should be a hippie industry with good vibes but it's not. Who did get to invest? Fucking car salesmen that made the cannabis industry horribly competitive and cut-throat.

My POV: I don't see other budtenders and dispensaries as competition. I see us all as cannabis enthusiasts trying to get the people some damn good weed. There's no place here for spitefulness and making moves against one another to cost people their jobs or companies.

On another note, talk to some women working in the cannabis industry about the ample amounts of sexual harassment they've dealt with and we can take this little convo into a whole new direction! There just shouldn't be any place in the cannabis industry for that type of stuff, but there is unfortunately.

That's pretty much the industry in its entirety and I hope it changes someday.

More thoughts later.

[biaswreckingfics]

Demon! Jung Subin

Summary: Summoning a demon for revenge was clearly not the best idea.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: language, implied death

This fic is part of my October event Thrills and Chills.

Stepping back to admire your handiwork, you study the pentagram you’ve hand-painted on the floor and wonder if you’re really about to go through with this. If what you’re doing is an entirely stupid idea, and if you should back out now while you still have the chance.

You’ve heard of people summoning demons before, of them getting everything they’ve desired. You’ve also heard about the stories where it blows up in their face, and the demon kills them. Were you willing to gamble your life to get revenge?

Your mind flashes back to the moment you walked into your boyfriend’s apartment and found him fucking your best friend. Your boyfriend of five years and your best friend since childhood committing one of the ultimate acts of betrayal. The blood had boiled in your veins, and you had wanted to kill them both on the spot.

Fuck yeah, you’re doing this. You have too much pride to let the two of them get away with hurting you like that, and if it costs you your life, then so be it. You’d rather be dead than have to come across either of those two ever again.

Crouching down to light the candles at each point of the pentagram, you grab the piece of paper you had printed out from some shady website and look down at the chant. The odds of this working were small, but you don’t care. You want revenge, and this is the only way you know how to get it without being thrown in prison.

Clearing your throat, you begin saying the chant. You follow the words and directions closely, repeating and doing what needs to be done. After nearly five minutes, you stop. How long are you supposed to do this for? How’re you supposed to know if anything even happens? A demon is just going to be standing in the pentagram like a movie?

Sighing, you let the directions fall to the floor. This is stupid. You’re stupid. You kneel on the floor and lean close to one of the candles to blow it out, but a rumble has you freezing. An earthquake? You didn’t get earthquakes in your area, but with the way the floor is rumbling… What else could it be?

You stand up to go look out the window and come face to face with a dark shape forming in the pentagram. Your eyes double in size, and a spike of fear zips through your heart. Holy. Shit. It’s working.

Slowly backing away from the symbol, you keep your eyes trained on the dark figure that is almost in a completely solid-state. You watch in awed horror as the black shadow forms into a dark, scaly creature. Its shape is humanoid. Its eyes are an intense obsidian that appear to be staring deep into your soul as it cocks its head to the side.

A growl so deep that it feels like it’s rumbling in your chest surrounds you. Then, suddenly, a multilayered voice that you’ve heard in nearly every paranormal movie or show you’ve ever seen reaches your ears.

“Did you summon me, human?”

Your eyes trail down its body, starting at its horned head, noticing its clawed hands, and then stopping at its matching feet. You gulp as a nervous fear sets in and steals any voice you have. The demon growls at your lack of answer before sniffing the air. A smile, if you can even call it that, grows on its face.

“Your fear is delicious.”

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself, you say, “Yes, I summoned you.”

“And what would a stupid human like you want from a demon like me?” It taunts you.

“Revenge. I want revenge on two people,” you cautiously answer as your eyes rake its body.

The demon cocks its head with interest. After a moment, a shadow begins to ooze from its pores, shrouding it from your eyes. You wonder if the demon is leaving until the shadow retracts and in front of you now stands a young man.

You take in the new figure in surprise and hate yourself when you find him attractive. He’s a demon for Christ’s sake. Nothing about him is attractive. Not his narrowed eyes. Not his soft-looking lips. Nothing, you remind yourself.

A cocky smile grows on his face like he can hear everything you’re thinking, and your heart drops into your stomach. Can he?

“Who would you like revenge on?” His honey voice reaches your ears. “Lover? Family? Foe?”

Blinking a couple times, you look away from his somewhat accurate guesses. Curiously, you ask, “I’m guessing I’m not the only one?”

A musical laugh falls from the figure. “Humans are such fickle creatures. The need for instant gratification always weighs out intelligence. You all want things you can’t have, and the desperate ones are always idiotic enough to summon my kind to get it.”

You look at the ground in shame for a moment. You’re quite clearly in the last category, and the fact that the demon is the one pointing out you’re an idiot is a special kind of irony.

“My boyfriend and best friend.”

The demon’s eyebrows raise in interest. “Cheated, did they?”

Your eyes trail up to his as you confirm, and he shrugs his shoulders. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you ask, “So, what will you do?”

“That depends on you. Are you willing to pay the price to get revenge?”

For some reason, it never dawned on you that you’d get this far. You never even considered what the demon would want in return.

“What’s the price, and what will you do?”

“I’ll make their lives a living hell. Make them think they’ve gone crazy and that someone is after them until they descend into absolute madness and lose their faculties.”

You consider if that’s what you want for them. You want them to pay for what they did – to suffer – but you stupidly never truly considered what you wanted to happen. You went into this entire thing half-cocked like an idiot. Just as the demon said.

“For your soul,” the demon finishes.

It feels like the breath is stolen from your lungs as your eyes wildly meet the demons. The price is your soul? To get revenge? No. No way. You’ll drag their names through social media before you sell your damn soul to a demon.

“No.”

He cocks a brow at you. “No?”

“The price is too high. I’m not selling you my soul.”

The demon’s eyes grow hard as he stares at you. It’s like you can almost see the fire burning behind the blackness.

“Are you telling me you’ve summoned me here only to refuse me?” He growls at you, causing fear to spike in your heart.

“I guess so.”

The demon lets out a small laugh before it turns into a louder one.

“You think you can deny me?” He demands as he steps out of the pentagram, completely walking over the protection circle you made. You gasp and quickly back away from him. “You think your stupid little protection stones are going to stop me? Child, you do not know who I am or what I can do, but tonight, you’ll experience it firsthand.”

It shifts back into its original, demonic form, and you back away as it advances on you, tripping over any and everything. Tears stream down your face as it nears, and you realize the horrible mistake you’ve made. Any attempts to scream are dashed because fear has paralyzed your vocal cords, and once you hit the wall behind you and are trapped between a counter and a chair, you know this is the end.

Its clawed hand grips your throat, cutting off your air supply as it leans in close to your face. “The price of summoning me is a soul, so you were never walking away from this. Only now, I won’t do a single thing to your boyfriend and friend. The only one here who will be punished is you.”

[whatwillyoudodifferently]

Look, Louts! Lilies! - Yuri For A Hope-Flung Present and Hopeful Future

Look, I’ll be frank. I typically try to keep to a more formal tone when I write for this blog. I’m not in a formal mood. It is June October 2020, and I, like the rest of you, have been under quarantine for a little over three almost seven months now due to the Covid-19 virus. Throw in a eensy, teensy bit of massive political movements and change in response to police violence and racism, and an increase of police violence and racism in response to those movements, and I think it’s fair to say it’s been a tumultuous couple of months. Except, strangely, it also hasn’t been, because so much of this time has been characterized by ennui and isolation. Stressful, yet soul-numbing. In short, it’s been a very weird place to be in.

So, we’ve all found our different ways to cope. My sister’s way has been getting really into succulents(?), and my way has been buying digital manga and video games. I’ve finished stuff I’ve put off for literal years and bought stuff I had heard was good but wasn’t that hyped to get into. And somehow, the one thing I’ve really gotten into has been yuri? 

Now, yuri has a very long and rich history, as well as its own sets of conventions and nuances, so it is with a great, great, GREAT deal of respect that I say that I’m going to simplify it for this essay as “Japanese media with a particular focus on romance between women” for brevity’s sake. If you want to know more, there’s actually quite a lot that’s been written about it in English, but I’m aiming this essay at English-speakers who have had at least a little experience with yuri and more than just passing knowledge.

Because you see, I’ve found that yuri fans have a lot of things to say about yuri! And a lot of those things really bug me!! “Yuri is only fetish quasi-porn written by men,” “yuri is only bland wholesome fluff,” “yuri is only high school drama,” so on, so on. It made me mad, but it also made me realize something: a lot of people simply must not know how big this field of lilies truly is! How else can we get people saying “yuri is oversexualized” and “yuri is sexless” as gospel truth? Something’s not adding up here, guys!

So, all that is to say I’m doing something different for this blog: I’m writing up a recommendation list of yuri. A large chunk of it will be stuff I’ve read and can officially give my seal of approval to, while some of them are just titles I’ve heard of that I think will interest others. All of them have been specifically chosen to counter common untrue things I’ve heard about yuri as a whole. I hope you can find at least a few things on this list that you will enjoy and help you keep your head as the encroaching darkness lurches yet a few inches closer!

1. “Yuri is all schoolgirl stuff! Where’s the sci-fi, the period pieces, the action, the fantasy?”

Otherside Picnic

What It Is: A light novel series written by Iori Miyazawa (illustrated by shirakaba). Ongoing, four volumes at time of writing. The story is being adapted into a manga by Eita Mizuno, and an anime adaptation directed by Takuya Satou will be airing in January 2021.

What It’s About: It was on her third trip to the Otherside that Sorawo Kamikoshi almost died, and it was on that same trip she was saved by an angel. Toriko Nishina is a beautiful and confident young woman who also happens to have intimate knowledge of the Otherside, a dangerous yet captivating world that Sorawo can’t help but being drawn to. Toriko convinces Sorawo to join her on her expeditions to the Otherside, fighting off bizarre creatures that have somehow been ripped out of Japanese urban legends and finding strange artifacts in order to make a little extra cash-- all the while keeping an eye out for someone dear to Toriko’s heart.

What I Think: Otherside Picnic is heavily inspired by the novel Roadside Picnic by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky and features several creatures and scenarios from ghost stories, net lore, and-- there’s no other way to put this-- creepypasta. On paper this sounds deeply unoriginal, so it’s pretty surprising that OP has an incredibly strong identity. The idea of fusing horror with a yuri love story excited me enough the moment I heard about it, so when I finally got to read it for myself, I was delighted to find that the horror elements and the romance elements are both quite strong. 

I will say that thanks to the author’s commitment to following his sources of inspiration to the letter sometimes causes him to undercut his own writing (good example: in one arc there’s an ominous train that keeps being mentioned, causing the reader to dread its arrival with each passing page, but seeing what’s on the train will inevitably fall flat in comparison to the reader’s imagination), but those moments are made up by the more original moments-- the things that are left unseen and unexplained.

The place where the story truly shines is the relationship between the two leads. Sorawo and Toriko are great characters, both incredibly charming and deeply flawed, and they achieve a great chemistry with each other right off the bat. Sorawo is a very interesting protagonist, one who turns out to have a deeply tragic past that has made her into a reclusive, somewhat selfish young woman. What’s great is that Toriko, vivacious and confident, everything Sorawo isn’t, accepts this part of her, in a way. Toriko flat out admits she’s not looking for a particularly virtuous person to accompany her, but an “accomplice.” A big part of the appeal of OP is seeing these two “accomplices” bounce off each other, and eventually come to care about each other, all playing against a background of some genuinely spine-crawling horror. Otherside Picnic is a truly underrated series, and I deeply hope that the anime adaption next year will finally get it all the eyes it deserves (menacing phrasing very much intended).

Where To Get It: The light novels are published by J-Novel Club and can be found via various digital platforms and bookstores. The manga will be published by Square Enix Books starting May 2021. The anime will start airing on January 4th, 2021.

Goodbye My Rose Garden

What It Is: A manga by Dr. Pepperco. Three volumes, complete. It inspired a stage play that ran for a while in Japan, but not much information is available about it in English. 

What It’s About: Hanako has two goals: to meet Victor Franks, the mysterious author who pens the books she adores, and to become a writer herself. Despite having the mettle to travel to England on her own to pursue her dreams, she soons finds that it’s difficult for a young, unwed Japanese woman to dream in 20th century London. However, her luck seems to turn around when she meets Alice Douglas, a noblewoman who offers her a job as her maid-- as well as a surprisingly warm friendship. Alice even offers Hanako a way to meet her idol… but at the price of a horrifying request.

What I Think: In the afterword of Volume 1, Dr. Pepperco openly admits that Goodbye, My Rose Garden was the result of them trying to marry all of their favorite tropes (“Victorian maids! Loads of frills! An English family manor!” are some standout items), and this is apparent in the best way possible. GMRG is a lush period piece that will likely appeal to fans of movies like The Handmaiden and Portrait Of A Lady On Fire, with loving attention paid to details like clothes and settings. 

The relationship between Alice and Hanako is quite charming, with Alice supporting Hanako as much as she can while still taking every available opportunity to tease her, while Hanako constantly surprises Alice each time she shows her moxie and strength. It’s an adorable, sweet dynamic, yet a dark, melancholy weight lurks in the background in the form of Alice’s request-- in short, it’s a relationship that feels tailor made for me. Still, I believe this “darkness” never threatens to overwhelm the story, only enhance it in such a way that the reader will soldier on, hoping for a happy ending for our two leads. With an engaging plot and gorgeous art, this is a great manga for both longtime yuri fans and newcomers looking for an introduction to the world of yuri.

Where To Get It: Seven Seas Entertainment has translated the first two volumes, with the final one coming to English soon all three volumes into English.

Seabed

What It Is: A visual novel by paleontology, a Japanese doujin circle.

What It’s About: Mizuno Sachiko is a designer who is haunted by visions of Takako, her vivacious childhood friend and former lover. Narasaki Hibiki is a psychiatrist who wants to help Sachiko make sense of these hallucinations. Takako is… confused, trying to figure out why she keeps losing her memory and why she and Sachiko drifted apart despite being so close. Seabed is a story that spans the pasts and presents of these three women as they attempt to find and understand the truth.

What I Think: At first glance, Seabed seems simple, but it’s a bit of a hard story to explain. In a way, there isn’t much to explain-- it’s a very slow, down-to-earth story that gets almost tedious at times. I think it would be a hard sell to someone who isn’t used to visual novels, but I could imagine it being challenging even for fans. All I’ll say is this: if you give Seabed a chance, it will draw you into a surreal, gentle, melancholy tale akin to slowly sinking beneath the water of a strange, yet not unfriendly sea. For its simplicity, it’s got quite a few surprises in its long, long runtime, and any attempt to explain further will just ruin an experience that’s meant to wash over the reader over time. The only thing I’ll say is the one thing I think everyone knows: the climax will make you cry.

Where To Get It: Seabed is published in English through Fruitbat Factory and is available on Steam, Itch.io, and Nintendo Switch.

SHWD

What It Is: A manga by Sono. Ongoing.

What It’s About: Sawada is one of the few women working for the Special Hazardous Waste Disposal, and the only one in her office. But that changes when the stunningly-strong yet staggeringly-sweet Koga is hired, and the two become close in no time. Sawada trains Koga and soon the two go on their first mission to dispose of the “hazardous waste” left after a recent war… the dangerous, organic anti-human weapons known as the Dynamis.

What I Think: SHWD opens with several close-ups of Sawada’s arm muscles as she works out. I have found that page alone is sometimes enough to convince someone to read SHWD, and if not, pictures of Sawada and-- especially-- Koga are often enough to do the job. In all seriousness, what I love about SHWD can be summarized by something Sono said in an interview about the manga:

‘The first motivating force was "I want to write a yuri manga featuring strong women." I was very drawn to strong female characters by watching "PERSON of INTEREST" and "Assassin's Creed Odyssey." However, I felt that I should differentiate myself by doing something other than a "strong woman" and "weak woman" dynamic. So, I thought about coupling women with different types of strength. This is why all of the SHWD main characters are "strong women."’

It’s a mindset I love a lot. Koga is remarkably strong in a physical sense, but her mental fortitude is fragile due to her past experiences with the Dynamis, and as such, it’s Sawada who uses her immense mental strength to support her. Indeed, every character in SHWD so far bears intense trauma born of the Dynamis in some way, and it’s hard to see how their pasts still hurt them in the present. But that just makes it satisfying to see these women come together to support one another. SHWD drew me in with a unique and often dark action-oriented story with horror elements, but it’s this idea of “strong women” who make up for each other’s weaknesses that really makes it dear to me. 

Also, it can’t be stated enough that Sono is so so so so so (etc) good at drawing muscular women. 

On a completely unrelated note, there’s a side story about Koga and Sawada playing sports together. This includes judo. I am saying this for no reason.

Where To Get It: The English translation of the manga is released in chapters by Lilyka Manga.

Sexiled: My Sexist Party Leader Kicked Me Out, So I Teamed Up With a Mythical Sorceress!

What It Is: A two volume light novel series by Ameko Kaeruda, illustrated by Kazutomo Miya. Possibly complete.

What It’s About: Tanya Artemiciov is an absurdly talented Mage. So why the hell was she kicked out of her adventuring party? Her leader and former friend sums it up in four words: “You’re a woman, Tanya.” In a fit of rage, Tanya channels her anger into a “venting” session that involves swearing her head of and casting a volley of Explosion spells into the wasteland… and accidentally releases a legendary sorceress! Luckily, Laplace is actually quite nice, and just as powerful as the legends say, so the two decide to team up so Tanya can have her revenge!

What I Think: So, this is a silly one, but after a couple of darker entries I think it’s a good palate cleanser. Sexiled is a loud, not-even-remotely subtle, unabashedly feminist take on the “power fantasy” light novel, especially the “revenge fantasy” subgenre-- and even if that sounds awesome on paper to you (ex. me), it will probably feel over-the-top at times to you (ex. me). But in a way, that’s actually kind of its charm. 

I like that Kaeruda utterly refuses to let up on what she wants to tell you, especially because the story was inspired by a real case in Japan. One may be tempted to think “this story is ridiculous, no one would ever be this cartoonishly sexist!” and then you read a news article about how in a famous Japanese medical university was found rigging the test scores of women, and you realize, “oh, people are still this cartoonishly sexist.” So I’m fine with Kaeruda letting it all out in this story. At the same time, I think Sexiled is best when it’s focused not on Tanya’s revenge but on her kindness, and the way her compassion, her strength, and yes, her anger inspires the women and girls around her. 

Sexiled is a fun and often very funny romp about assholes getting theirs, with some surprisingly deep and nuanced moments hiding in a very unsubtle story.

Where To Get It: The light novels are published by J-Novel Club and can be found via various digital platforms and bookstores.

BONUS: Other titles with sci-fi/fantasy/action elements that may interest you!

The Blank Of Describer: A one-shot manga by kkzt about a pair of two dream-builders. They’ve taken all kinds of commissions in the past, but one job they recieve throws them for a loop: a request for a shinigami that can predict and report death. And then comes the kicker: the customer asks the two of them to give it features that the both of them “adore the most…” (Published in English by Lilyka Manga)

A Lily Blooms In Another World: A light novel by Ameko Kaeruda (illustrated by Shio Sakura), author of Sexiled, about Miyako, a Japanese wage slave reincarnated into another world based on her favorite otome game. However, she’s not interested in her would-be love interest, but in Fuuka Hamilton-- the game’s villainess! After Miyako confesses her love, Fuuka decides to give her a challenge: if Miyako can make her say the words “I’m happy” in fourteen days, she’ll stay by her side! (Published in English through J-Novel Club, available on various platforms)

Superwomen In Love: An ongoing manga by sometime about the sentai villainess Honey Trap and her infatuation with the masked superheroine Rapid Rabbit. After being kicked out of her evil organization, Honey Trap decides to team up with her former nemesis to fight evil-- and hopefully, find romance! (To be published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment, coming in April 2021)

2. “Yuri is all stories about teenagers! Where’s the stuff about adults?”

Take a look at the previous section: there’s the stuff about adults! Otherside Picnic, Goodbye My Rose Garden, Seabed, SHWD, Sexiled, The Blank of Describer, A Lily Blooms In Another World, and Superwomen In Love are all stories with adult-aged protagonists! But if you’re searching for a more down-to-earth romance, I’m happy to report there’s quite a bit of options to look into!

Still Sick

What It Is: A manga by Akashi. Three volumes, complete.

What It’s About: Makoto Shimizu is an office lady with a secret: she’s a yuri fan who draws doujinshi. She’s able to keep her two lives separate, all until the day she comes face-to-face with her co-worker at a convention! To Makoto’s horror, Akane Maekawa is amused by her nerdy secret, but Akane may have some secrets of her own...

What I Think: This one was a roller coaster for me: I loved the premise of the manga, but wasn’t sure about the dynamic between the leads… that is, until near the end of the first volume, where something happened and everything changed. Without giving too much away, I implore people to give Still Sick a chance-- it has a much deeper story than one might initially guess, as well as an interesting character dynamic between the two leads with some surprising turns.

Where To Get It: The first two volumes of Still Sick are published in English by Tokyopop, with the final one coming soon All three volumes have been published in English by Tokyopop.

After Hours

What It Is: A manga by Yuhta Nishio. Three volumes, complete.

What It’s About: After being ditched by her friend at a club, Emi Ashiana is ready to write the whole night off. All that changes when she meets Kei, a DJ who seems to be everything Emi is not-- cool, confident… employed.... But Kei and Emi hit it off and Emi’s life changes as Kei draws her into the world of Japan’s club scene!

What I Think: It’s hard to explain exactly why I like this manga, but I reeeeally like this manga. 

There’s just something about the sleek art, the amazing atmosphere of the scenes set in nightclubs, the chemistry between Emi and Kei, the focus on more mature topics.... it’s a manga that’s remarkably magnetic for how down-to-earth it is. It’s also just interesting to read stories about subcultures that don’t normally get a spotlight in comics. To sum it up, After Hours is just a lovely manga that’s severely underrated that’s perfect for someone who’s looking for a story that’s both fun and mature.

Where To Get It: All three volumes are published in English by Viz Media.

How Do We Relationship?

What It Is: A manga by Tamifull. Ongoing, five volumes at time of writing.

What It’s About: Miwa and Saeko’s first meeting is… interesting. But despite that, and despite their clashing personalities, the two of them become fast friends. Well… actually, perhaps more than friends. You see, pretty soon the two of them learn that the other is into women. With that in mind, Saeko suggests they try dating each other-- might as well, right? “Might as well” seems like a strange place to begin a relationship, but perhaps even something like that could end in true love?

What I Think: “Why do romances always end when they decide to start dating?!” That’s the question Tamifull poses in the afterword of Volume 1. And it’s a great question! What makes How Do We Relationship? an interesting manga is how oddly realistic it is, highlighting things like the compromises people make in relationships, people who get into relationships for pragmatic reasons rather than love, the whole “thing” about sex… as well as highlighting the additional issues queer people have to deal with. That may sound like a heavy story, but it’s actually quite light-hearted, as well as very, very funny at times. With a cute art style and surprisingly deep premise, HDWR is a great manga for older yuri fans who are craving a more mature story.

Where To Get It: The first volume has been published in English by Viz Media, with more on the way.

BONUS: Other titles with adult protagonists that may interest you!

Even Though We’re Adults: A manga by Takako Shimura about two women in their thirties. Ayano and Akari meet each other in a bar and almost immediately feel a sense of chemistry between them. There’s just one problem: Ayano is married to someone else. (To be published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment, coming in January 2021)

Doughnuts Under A Crescent Moon: A manga by Shio Usui. Uno Hinako wants nothing more than to be seen as a normal young woman, but she just can’t seem to make a “normal” romance work. But maybe Sato Asahi, a woman who works at the same company as her, can show her a new kind of normal? (To be published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment, coming in February 2021)

Our Teachers Are Dating: A manga by Pikachi Ohi. Hayama Asuka is a gym teacher, Terano Saki is a biology teacher. One day, they come into work both looking suspiciously happy… because they’ve started dating! (Published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment)

I Married My Best Friend To Shut My Parents Up: A one-volume manga by Kodama Naoko. Morimoto is sick and tired about constantly being badgered about finding a man to marry, so her kouhai from her high school days offers a solution: marry each other to make her parents back off! (Published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment)

Now Loading…!: A one-volume manga by Mikan Uji. Takagi has just snagged her dream job at a games publisher, but being put in charge of a mobile game that’s barely pulling in any attention isn’t exactly what she was hoping for. What’s worse, she’s drawn the attention of her strict higher-up Sakurazuki Kaori… who also happened to design her most favorite game of all time?! (Published in English through Seven Seas Entertainment)

3.  “Yuri is all schoolgirl stuff! Where’s- wait, didn’t we already do this one?”

Yes we did. And you know what? I’m making a stand! There’s a lot of really, really good yuri stories set in high schools, and I think more people need to give them a chance! Here are some high school titles that I think are worth a second look for one reason or another!

Bloom Into You

What It Is: A manga by Nakatani Nio. Eight volumes, complete. A twelve episode anime aired in 2018, covering about the first half of the series. A three volume spinoff light novel series written by Hitoma Iruma was also published.

What It’s About: Yuu Koito has long dreamed of the day she’d find That One, Storybook Romance that would make her feel like she was walking on air, but the day that a boy confesses to her, her feet remain firmly planted on the ground. When she meets Touko Nanami, a girl who seems to have the same strange, distant relationship to romance as she does, Yuu feels like she has found a comrade. But what will happen when the next person to confess to Yuu… is Touko?

What I Think: What can I say about Bloom Into You that hasn’t already been said? There’s a reason it’s basically considered a staple of yuri despite being only five years old. The art is beautiful and delicate, the story has a deft mastery of comedy, drama, and romance, and the characters are deeply loveable. Really, the only reason this one is here is to tell you to get to reading this manga (or watching the anime) if you haven’t already. So get to it!

Where To Get It: The entire series-- as well as the spinoff light novel series Regarding Saeki Sayaka-- has been published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment. The anime is currently streaming on HiDive.

Yuri Is My Job

What It Is: A manga by Miman. Ongoing, seven volumes at time of writing.

What It’s About: Hime wants nothing more than to be adored by everyone and to someday bag a rich husband. Of course, being loved by all takes a lot of work, and she prides herself in keeping her perfect, adorable facade so well-maintained. But of course, the one time she slips up, she ends up injuring the manager of a local cafe! Hime finds herself strong-armed into working for this cafe under their star employee, a kind, graceful girl named Mitsuki. But things aren’t quite so simple-- you see, this cafe has a gimmick in which all the employees are constantly acting out yuri-inspired scenes for the customers, so in a way, the employees also have their own facades. And under her facade, Mitsuki… hates Hime’s guts!

What I Think: Yuri Is My Job is an odd duck, but in a good way. It’s advertised and initially framed as a comedy, but it becomes a surprisingly thoughtful drama about the personas people adopt and why they do so (though, luckily, the comedy never truly goes away). There’s an interesting web of relationships between the girls, and having those interactions take place in a setting where they must act out a completely different sort of drama adds an extra level of drama and intrigue. The cute, polished artwork is just the icing on the cake. YIMJ is a good manga for those who are already familiar with yuri tropes and those who are interested in a drama that doesn’t get too heavy.

Where To Get It: Six volumes have been published in English by Kodansha comics, with the seventh on the way.

Riddle Story of Devil

What It Is: A manga written by Yun Kouga and illustrated by Sunao Minakata. Five volumes, complete. A 12 episode anime aired in 2014.

What It’s About: At Myojo Private School, an elite all-girl’s academy, Class Black has a secret. Twelve of the thirteen girls are actually assassins who have been offered a dark deal-- one wish will be granted to whoever manages to kill Haru Ichinose, the thirteenth student. But there’s still hope for Haru in the form of Tokaku Azuma, one of the assassins who has decided to defect to Haru’s side-- and defend her from the other girls at any cost.

What I Think: I’m not sure… if I can say Riddle Story of Devil is “good.” It’s definitely something. Although its premise is vaguely similar to Revolutionary Girl Utena, its tone and atmosphere remind me a lot more of the Dangan Ronpa series. It’s schlocky and ridiculous and often over-the-top and at times exploitative. It’s pure junk food, basically… and I believe that’s where the charm comes from. It’s my guiltiest of guilty pleasures. It may not exactly be good, but more often than not, it’s fun. It’s hard not to be immediately interested in a yuri battle series, you have to admit. 

And if it does have one undeniably good element, it’s Tokaku and Haru’s relationship. They contrast each other nicely, and while one might expect Haru to be boring and helpless, she’s actually quite proactive at times, and some of the most interesting, engaging parts of the series come from seeing how the two work together to fend off the latest assassin. It’s a short read and if anything, it’s worth it to see how each girl ends up. I recommend it for older viewers who are okay with violence and ludicrous battle scenarios.

Where To Get It: All five volumes are available through Seven Seas Entertainment. The anime can be watched through Funimation.*

*Please don’t watch the anime.**

** At the very least, please don’t watch the anime unless you’ve read the entire manga. Riddle Story Of Devil was one of those unfortunate cases where the anime adaption was produced before the manga reached its conclusion, and as such it has a very strange, rushed ending that includes none of what I enjoyed about the actual ending. Several scenes were also changed, and if I recall correctly, fanservice was added in several places where there was none previously. All in all, I’d really only recommend it for big fans of the series.

Side By Side Dreamers

What It Is: A light novel by Iori Miyazawa, illustrated by Akane Malbeni. One volume, complete.

What It’s About: Saya Hokage has been suffering from insomnia, but one day finds relief in the form of Hitsuji Konparu, a strange girl who can put people to sleep. As it turns out, Hitsuji is a person who has the special ability to move freely in their dreams, known as a “Sleepwalker.” The Sleepwalkers have been battling beings that possess people through their dreams, and it turns out they want Saya to join them in the fight.

What I Think: Side By Side Dreamers is short and… well, dreamy. I really enjoyed the premise and I think it’s a good novel for people who think Otherside Picnic may be a little too much for them. I also enjoyed each dream sequence-- I tend to find that the writing in light novels is a little dry, so the use of figurative language to describe these scenes was really refreshing and interesting. SBSD is a fun oneshot that I think is especially ideal for newcomers to yuri.

Where To Get It: Side-by-Side Dreamers is published by J-Novel Club and can be found via various digital platforms and bookstores.

Cocoon Entwined

What It Is: A manga by Yuriko Hara. Three volumes, ongoing.

What It’s About: Hoshimiya Girls' Academy is a strange, almost otherworldly paradise with a peculiar tradition. For all three years, each girl grows out her hair to absurd, breathtaking lengths, in order for it to eventually be cut and weaved into uniforms for future students. Perhaps it is these strange uniforms that seem to whisper about the past that makes the school seem frozen in another time… picturesque, yet stagnant. But one day, a shocking incident shatters the quiet peace of the academy, and the tumultuous feelings that have long been hidden in the hearts of these girls come rushing into the light.

What I Think: Cocoon Entwined is, in a word, eerie. It’s not marketed as a horror story, and I don’t think it’s intended to be one, but I’ve seen some that say they get horror vibes from it. I definitely understand that-- there’s a deep sense of unease that permeates the entire story in a way that’s a bit hard to articulate. The running thread of uniforms made from human hair definitely doesn’t hurt (it does-- I’ve seen many people understandably turned off by this element), but it’s more than that. It’s the sense that everything at Hoshimiya feels frozen and fragile. It’s the sense that everyone is burying their true feelings under countless layers. It’s the fact that in one scene, Saeki reaches out in a dark room full of uniforms and feels her arm touched by countless hands made of hair. 

Cocoon Entwined is a strange manga, and I feel it’s not for everyone-- besides the way many are put off by the central premise, the way that the story jumps around in time can be a bit confusing to follow. But in my opinion, I love it for these elements: the uniforms and their marriage between beauty and grotesque, the sense of frozen time, the delicate artwork that feels like it might be shattered by the weight of your gaze, the strange, airless atmosphere, the girls and their clear exhaustion of having to be ideal women. It’s a strange little series that I think should be given a shot, particularly if you want something a little more out there, or a darker take on Class S tropes.

Where To Get It: Yen Press has currently published two volumes in English.

BONUS: Other high school titles that may interest you!

A Tropical Fish Yearns For Snow: A manga by Makoto Hagino. Konatsu Amano has just moved to a new town by the sea, and must deal with her new school’s mandatory club policy. Luckily, she meets Koyuki Honami, an older girl who runs the Aquarium Club. Recognizing her loneliness, Konatsu decides to join her club. (Published  in English by Viz Media)

Flowers: A four-part series of visual novels published by Innocent Grey. Flowers focuses on Saint Angraecum Academy, a private high school that prides itself on overseeing the growth of proper young ladies. One notable thing about the academy is the Amitié program, a system that pairs students together in order to foster friendships between the girls. But friendship isn’t the only thing blooming… (Available in English from Steam, J-List, and JAST USA)

Adachi And Shimamura: A series of light novels written by Hitoma Iruma and illustrated by Non that has recently received a manga adaptation and an anime adaption. Adachi and Shimamura are two girls who encounter each other one day while cutting class. Little by little, the two girls become a part of each other’s lives, and feelings begin to form. (The light novels are published in English by Seven Seas Entertainment, the anime is licensed by Funimation)

And there we go! 24 different yuri titles. I didn’t even go into the series that I tried but personally didn’t like that still might interest other people. I primarily made this list to gush about yuri that I liked, but I also tried to include a fairly wide range of things so that, hopefully, any random person who read this whole list could find at least one new title that interests them. And I hope that includes you!

The yuri scene is quite large and wonderful if you know where to look, and it too often gets a bad rap. I hope that this list could give you a new perspective on what kinds of titles are available, and I hope it gives you something new to try. And remember: if you want something specific, try looking for it! There’s a good chance the story you’re craving is already out there, waiting to be discovered!

[intangibly-here]

don't say it's too late (to say i need you)

zhongli x gn!reader

- scenario; 2.9k words - fluff & angst - sad ending - alternate universe; canon-divergent - warning: implied/past character death; self-deprecation; descriptions of asphyxiation, blood, and injury; please take note.

————————————————————

a single red dahlia blooms inside your heart.

(a field inside your lungs.)

title from milet - inside you.

————————————————————

soft sunlight falls on your face as you slowly wake up, a soothing voice lulling you to the realm of the awakened. zhongli, pristine as always, peers over your blanket covered form, smiling gently at your face as you give him a quiet whine.

“good morning, love.”

“morning zhongli...” you clear your throat to respond without mumbling, but give up halfway through, instead reaching your arms up to loop around his back and pull him into a hug. zhongli complies all too easily, breathing an exasperated sigh and tugging you to sit upright as he takes you into his arms. his skin is warm, still clothed in moderately casual clothes - by his standards - and the sun-kissed edges of his eyes drown you in his being.

(zhongli is such a warm being. encompassing yet not suffocating, sweet but not unnaturally so; the way he can twist words, spin tales so enamoring that you can’t help but stay. his presence grounds you, a constant in this ever-changing universe that surrounds you, and you let yourself fall, deeper and deeper, into the sanctuary that is zhongli.)

his hands rub soothing circles into your back, fingers working to trace shapes onto your skin and brush over a swipe of gold all too tenderly. his long hair, still untied from where he had instead moved to wake you up, drapes like embellished curtains around you two, hidden safely from the world.

as you’re about to fall back into slumber, zhongli sighs, gripping your shoulders to admonishingly shake your sleep-softened form.

“we should begin the preparations for a meal,” he chides, or in other words, i’m hungry, get up so we can eat. it’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to pouting, and you chuckle at the thought.

“alright, alright, ‘m getting up.”

pulling away the puffy blankets and taking your hand, zhongli gracefully helps you to stand up from the bed and stumble to the bathroom.

it’s halfway through your morning routine that you hear the rapping of several knocks on the door. you look up from the white towel your face is buried in.

“zhongli?”

he clears his throat, and before you have the chance to wonder why, he responds:

“i’ve heated the pan, however-“

his voice trails off into an embarrassed silence. you can see the sullen look on his face, the dip of his brows and the tiniest push of his lip, even from behind the door. your mouth lilts up into a smile.

“-however you would like some help with the rest?”

zhongli huffs, just loud enough to reach your ears.

“..yes, that— if you would.”

your hands resume their motions, if not a little quicker, the damp towel set down and a string bracelet slid over your hand, fastened to rest on your wrist. the singular charm dangles freely, cool against the heat of your skin. it was fashioned to look like a larger dragon curled around a smaller one. your heels shift against the ground as you turn to the accessory cabinet, opening the drawer in search of a comb.

“of course, a-li. i’ll be finished in a moment.”

a sheepish hum is all you receive before you hear his footsteps trail away back to the kitchen, take the chance to exit the bathroom in search of your outfit for today.

while zhongli is an expert in all recipes complex, his slow-cooked bamboo shoot soup being one of those, he by some odd chance of nature cannot cook simple meals. how you’d discovered this, it would be unwise to mention (for the sake of zhongli’s pride and your own skin), but ever since then, it’d been you cooking the simpler meals and zhongli taking charge of the more elaborate ones, per say.

it makes up just another part of how your relationship has bloomed over time.

finally properly dressed, you hurry to the kitchen to make breakfast. zhongli shuffles to the left to make room for you, helping you to fasten a simple apron for cooking. you find your peace in the spot nestled by his side, dropping cubed radish cakes on hot metal and stirring congee in the pot. your shoulders brush and hips bump as you prepare the meal together, hands fumbling to arrange the array of dumplings. the sizzling of the pan and billows of steam from the steamer basket draw you closer into the moment.

(it is the gentlest picture of home.)

the subtle clink of cutlery fills the air as zhongli sets the table, moving from setting down appropriate tableware to helping you plate the food. two cups of tea find their way to the table, “the tea is hot love, don’t burn yourself.”, and you enjoy the sole, blissful feeling of a morning with zhongli. the meal is delicious as always, the seasonings flavorful and food warm in your stomach, but the serenity of your slow morning together is all too easily interrupted by voices from outside your front door. they chatter for a moment, then pause and a few knocks on the door sound out.

zhongli’s expression lights up just a tad from where it had sunken into soft contentment, and he nods at you in silent confirmation of who they are, setting down his chopsticks. at that, you smile as well, unlocking the door to let havria and guizhong inside.

(havria? guizhong..?)

“good morning you two! ready to head out to the market?” guizhong, ever cheerful and energetic, shifts restlessly by the door. havria modestly stands beside her, nodding along in unsaid agreement.

“allow us to tidy up first?” zhongli looks over at you, and you pick up the empty bowls and plates, moving the dishes to the sink in response.

when the dishes have been washed and lain out on the rack to dry, you reconvene at the doorway, straightening out your coat and putting on your shoes to head outside.

out of the corner of your eye, you spot zhongli’s tie slipping out of his coat just the slightest. unthinkingly, you turn around, deftly slipping the cloth back into place. zhongli’s eyes widen, then smile at you, lifting your hand to press a kiss to the back of it. if your cheeks heat up in the telltale sign of a blush, no one mentions it.

the moment you open the door and step outside into the sunlight, your senses are filled with the sight and sounds of the bustling harbor.

you can hear the shouts of merchants handling hawker stalls even from just outside your doorway, and that’s the direction you immediately tug zhongli in, havria and guizhong trailing with smiles behind you.

(when you first met him, but a brief glance given as you walked down this very street, you’d thought of him as particular. particularly royal, particularly formal, particularly- well, interesting. dressed finer than anyone else around, yet lacking the common sense of anyone surrounding him, he was an enigma in himself.)

zhongli stumbles for a moment, shaken by your sudden enthusiasm, and gives a low chuckle, shaking his head. his footsteps follow yours nonetheless, hand tucked into your own. the string of his bracelet sways in the breeze, as if chasing the end of your own flowing string.

(it was only with time that he was willing to show you more behind that distracting facade. the micro-expressions that danced across his face whenever you made a joke he didn’t quite understand, the slump of his shoulders when he realized he had yet again forgotten to bring mora, the draining weight of century-lain exhaustion that plagued his soul.)

(it was all... zhongli.)

you’re strolling by the various stalls, each and every one selling different specialties, when you spy a certain stand by chance. letting go of zhongli’s hand with a squeeze for a moment, you step closer to the stall’s spread of items.

to the side of a flower-pressed piece of pottery lays a pendant of cor lapis. you pick it up to inspect it further, and are only increasingly surprised by the fine details and remarkable craftsmanship.

“zhongli! come over and look at this!” you call, flipping the locket over in your hands. the more you look, the more stunning it seems to get. a single dahlia head is perfectly encased in molten amber, fine pattern displayed beautifully and strung masterfully on a delicate metal chain.

“zhongli?” when he doesn’t respond, you turn around, mildly confused. there, he stands unnervingly still, eyes wide and shocked. you tilt your head, looking around you to see what he could be so uncharacteristically surprised about. nothing is out of the ordinary. chefs are strolling around, shopping for groceries, and construction workers are still repairing the damages to a house nearby. it’s alright nearby the cliffs, no mishaps or accidents, and the sun shines as brightly as ever.

you look down— and all at once everything seems to make sense as blood-red petals spill out of your lips onto the ground.

the pendant slips out of your grasp, and the world stops for a moment.

(you know what this means.)

then, an ear-piercing scream rings out, echoing inside your head, breaking the silence, and suddenly everything is shattering, golden shards flying across the floor, and try as you might, you just can’t, can’t— can’t pick up the pieces fast enough.

(not again, not again, not again—)

you clutch at your neck, vines climbing up your throat and petals forcing themselves from your gaping mouth. it burns. the pain sends you reeling, licking white hot from your veins and into your flesh, and you collapse onto the floor, curled up and clawing at the gaping emptiness growing inside you. it’s choking, suffocating, and the claws of your ribs dig into your lungs. the splintered pendant shards cut at your knees.

(rightful punishment for what you’ve done.)

your head throbs with freezing realization as you remember once more, contrary to the flames singing your nerves. the stinging pain stabbing your skin only worsens, your breaths becoming shorter and shorter.

keep telling yourself lies,

the voice in your head whispers,

because zhongli is dead anyway.

it screams—

this is what you deserve.

(he was so, so beautiful.

kind in all the right ways, wise in all the best.

and then you just had to strangle him with your own hands.

lying traitor.

withholding one side, then murdering the other.

—should just disappear.)

now, it is your eyes that burn, when did you even close them?, and you force your heavy eyelids to open. you chest heaves, and your mouth struggles to do anything other than choke on flowers. you can’t breathe. in your hazy vision, zhongli crouches in front of you, all regal bearing discarded. he’s blurry all around the edges, but you can make out the sad expression on his face. your head throbs again.

pitiful.

you choke out another mouthful of bloodied petals. the wind blows harder, as if mocking your suffering. zhongli’s thread bracelet, the matching ones you two had gotten together in hopes of brighter future, swings even harder as the draft pulls it towards the sky.

your bracelet stays placid.

zhongli lifts his hands to you, almost hesitantly, as if you would disappear any moment now. his mouth opens, as if to say something, but then it closes, and he murmurs, “shhh... it’ll be okay.”

miraculously, your lungs expand, and you take a deep breath.

his palms, soft and untelling of his long-lived history, cup your face, and he gingerly wipes away your tears. it’s too gentle, too caring for, for— for someone like you. how can he still—? he knows what you’ve done; he has to know now. of the blood on your hands.

(you- you don’t deserve him. didn’t ever deserve him. and now all that’s left for you is your pathetic being. alive instead of him. alive instead of zhongli.)

he smiles softly at you, out of place within your shaken head.

he knows.

but he still cares.

he loves you.

it’s warm, warm, warm.

tears slide across your skin once more.

and just as you’re sinking back into this haze, this dream, his smile drops—

he backs away.

the air that had just made it’s way back into your lungs vanishes, the overgrowth in your heart and soul surging forth tenfold.

please stay—

the stems that branch from bloodied dahlias grasp your windpipe, constricting it with baleful strength. your words die in your throat, and you desperately gasp for air. your heart aches, longing for something right in front of you, yet ungraspable, intangible. it eats away at the small part of you deeply hidden, tucked far inside, the part that just wants and wants and wants— wants to be happy. wants to be loved. wants.. zhongli. “—y child.”

he must see something in your eyes, because he purses his lips and turns his head away. it’s a stark contrast to all his earlier behavior, and it has your heart freezing over, heavy and cold and wrong.

unwanted.

then again, this illusion is over now isn’t it? of course it’s your fault once more, these stupid stupid flowers killing you; both your ignorance and your bliss.

he’s still so, so beautiful.

“—ke up, m-“

the last kiss he presses to your forehead goes unnoticed, as does his tears, your eyes trained solely on his back as he stands up and walks away calmly, steadily.

forgotten.

in the distance, even with your increasingly darkening vision, you can make out the forms of guizhong and havria smiling, welcoming him.

(you love him, love, love— is that not enough? not enough for you to stay? here? please, why whywhywhywhywhy—)

so that’s why they were here.

you wish you could follow them.

the piercing pain of asphyxiation slices through your chest as if in reminder of your betrayal, throbbing with every shaky breath you take as you watch zhongli fade away. your hands claw futilely at the ground, nails dirtied and fingers sore. the first loud sob escapes your throat.

“wake up—“

useless.

(no, no no nonono, please come back love, please, don’t leave, don’t leave don’t leave, pleasepleaseplease—)

your battered, bloodied form shrinks into itself, seeking lost comfort and amber eyes, hands clutching your once shared bracelet. the light in your eyes dim and your body falls numb, hand twitching and you lose your thoughts in a daze.

thump.

stay, stay, stay—

thump.

you want to stay.

thump.

why can’t you stay?

thump.

zhongli...

thum—

“wake up, my child.”

—and then your eyes are snapping open, the tsaritsa’s shadow looming over your huddled form. in your sleep-muddled daze, you recognize her instantly, mechanically performing an informal kneel to her majesty. your legs stutter beneath you and your hands tremble underneath your sleeves. your hands curl into themselves like a lifeline as you attempt to cease your rapid breathing.

“i see you’re having dreams again,” she mildly remarks, gaze flicking to you then back at the arch of her wrist. her eyes shine in the dark of the room. you can’t tell what she’s implying, but it sends a chill down your spine nonetheless.

you don’t reply.

“there’s a new mission awaiting you, my dear.” the drawl of her voice is too languid for the emotions running through your head, much too cold and nonchalant; you barely process her words to give a shaky nod. even from where you face the floor, still kneeling, you can feel the smile she adorns.

“make haste.”

with that, she saunters out of the room, heels clicking against the tiled floor. you can hear the tinkle of the chain wrapped around her waist, and with it, a glimpse of a familiar hourglass shaped ornament. the door shuts.

you wish you hadn’t looked.

standing up unsteadily, you turn to your wardrobe to redress properly, discarding your resting top and pulling a clean one over your scar-marred form. you don’t make an expression acknowledging it, but your fingertips trace over the dull gold of a dragon tattoo that sprawls across your torso, scales spiraling in a show of fierceness.

(you don’t let the tears fall until you’re sure she’s far, far away.)

duty waits for no one. you follow in the tsaritsa’s footsteps as quickly as you can after dressing, exiting the room with grace into the cold sunlight of snezhnaya.

(...you can’t do this any longer, zhongli.)

if only the warm fog of your imagination would keep you there, safe in his arms and tucked into his chest, kisses pressed to your face and warm meals shared between warm souls. you can feel the phantom hold of his palms on your face, thumbing your cheeks and pressing the softest kiss to your lips as you trudge through the freezing snow.

after all, in your imagination, you wouldn’t be lethal poison to him.

(“a-li?”)

if only you hadn’t selfishly kept that warmth all for yourself, tightly grasping it and binding it to a being that would never be free.

maybe then it wouldn’t have died out so soon.

(“yes, my love.”)

if only you hadn’t ever loved—

(...the one thing you will not allow yourself to regret is loving him.)

his hair clip weighs a little heavier in the pocket of your uniform today.

[deathlikesdeep-dish]

Hi! Congrats on having 100 followers! I really like your works😗 can I request for prompt number 2 (SFW)with Law. Thank youuuuu so much!

Hi Anon!

So sorry this took so long, but I hope it was worth the wait!! 

Prompt 2: “In case we don’t make it back...” (Law x Reader) SFW

Word Count: 3k

Synopsis: in the weeks leading up to the events at dressrosa, you find yourself falling for the brooding heart pirates captain. the odds aren’t good. so, in case you don’t make it back...

warnings: language, a little angst, some fluff 

Dressrosa is a hellscape. But only you seem to know it. Everyone around you seems to be content with the facade that has been created--no one ever asks questions, everyone is always smiling. But you know better. You know just how dark the underbelly of this place really is. Everyone seemed to love the Donquixote family--adored them, in fact. From the saccharine persona of Sugar, to the repulsive Trebol, all the way up to the pink bastard himself, Doflamingo--everyone cherished them. The protection that a warlord could provide a country couldn’t be discounted to them, though many of  the citizens of Dressrosa had given their sentient lives for it. But you hoped that one day, the people of Dressrosa would see that though their god wore bright clothing, his soul was nothing but darkness. 

Two Weeks Prior

You’d known of the Strawhat pirates for a while now, keeping track of their movements. Their captain is reckless, but determined to take down Doflamingo, which worked in your favor, certainly. The news of their alliance with warlord colleague, Trafalgar Law was, you admit, a surprise. But you’d been intrigued by the inked captain, so you decided to take advantage of the opportunity and introduce yourself. 

He and the Strawhat captain, Monkey D. Luffy, seemed to be in an argument when you first saw him at the docks. Well, a more apt description might be that Law was arguing with Luffy, who seemed very unconcerned with his ally’s thoughts.

You walk closer, not wanting to alert them to your presence quite yet. As you approach, you hear what they’re arguing about.

“Will you just listen to me, idiot?” Law gritted through his teeth. “This plan is insane, it is not going to work.”

“Lighten up, Tra-guy,” Luffy replied easily, grinning as he slapped a hand on Law’s shoulder. 

He shoved Luffy’s hand off with a huff. “Lighten up?” You took a step closer. “Lighten up?” He asked again, his voice increasing in volume. “Do you little shits have any idea who this guy is? He’s a warlord.” He paused, a sad, distant look on his face, 

“He’s right,” You said, finally within earshot of the two pirates. Their heads snapped to you, alarmed at the interruption. 

“Who the hell are you?” Law said, narrowing his eyes. His body followed the direction of his head, and he now faced you squarely. Now fully upright, you could see just how tall  he was, standing nearly two heads above his pirate ally. Your eyes were drawn to his striking features--dark eyes, dark hair, dark whorls of ink on his exposed skin. You were particularly drawn to his hands. Long fingers stained with black tattoos, the fingers you knew were capable of bringing a person to their knees with just a simple gesture. Room.

You knew he was handsome from his wanted poster, but damn, it did not fully capture the brooding magnetism that you saw in front of you right now. 

“I’m y/n,” You finally replied, closing the gap between you and the pair. “I live here, in Dressrosa.” 

Luffy began to talk, but Law clapped his hand over Luffy’s mouth, silencing him. “Shut up,” Law said with a clenched jaw. Luffy grumbled, trying to rip Law’s hand away.

You dropped your weapon in a show of good faith.. “Just hear me out. Please.” You needed to convince Law (Luffy didn’t seem like he needed much convincing) that you were on their side. Any side that was equally interested in annihilating the Don Quixote family. 

Law looked at you suspiciously, and signaled for you to continue talking. You explained everything to them. You explained how you’d come here to Dressrosa after escaping capture. You’d made a life for yourself, selling your wares at the market in town. Seeing walking toys was jarring, to say the least, but what was even more jarring was the fact that no one seemed to be asking any questions about it. In fact, the citizens of Dressrosa seemed to be downright chirpy. It made your skin crawl. And Doflamingo was too revered, despite his seedy grin and disreputable demeanor. 

So you did some digging, you told them. And you’d inadvertently discovered the awful secret of the country. It all made sense, and it made you despise the oligarchy even more. There were a few that were a part of the underground rebellion, to whom you swore your allegiance. When you found out that Trafalgar Law had potential plans to overthrow the man who once enslaved him, you were practically writhing with vigor and excitement at the prospect. 

The captains listened closely, not interrupting once. Even the rambunctious Strawhat was rapt with attention. When you finally finished your tale, you leaned against the rocky cliff face at the mouth of the dock, waiting for a reaction. 

After a few moments of silence, you spoke again, hoping that with these next words, your trust would be earned. “I’m sorry about Corazon. I didn’t know him personally, but I’ve heard him discussed. It seems like he was a great man.” 

Law’s face went pale at the sound of his friend’s name, and Luffy looked over to him with a puzzled look. But even Luffy could tell that this was not something to ask about right now. He’d never seen Law look like this before. 

He was silent for a long few minutes, and you began to regret your decision. Maybe mentioning Corazon wasn’t the right move. Damn it, damn it, damn it. You needed their trust. Their help. The very lives of the people in this country depended on garnering this rapport.

“Look, I’m sorry. I should have mention--” You were cut off.

“The rebellion,” Law interrupted. “You have strong fighters?” 

Your heart leapt. Maybe this was actually going to work. “Yes, but we need more. Diamante has been on our ass for a few months, so we have a hard time maintaining our numbers.” 

You could see that he was considering, and after another second he said, “Take us to your base.”

That was two weeks ago. 

The plan was made, the date set. Tomorrow, you would join Law, Usopp and Robin in their journey to Green Bit. Aboard the Sunny, one would not think a deadly battle was looming over the pirates’ heads. You’d learned so much about the crew over the past few weeks, and it filled you with such a hope that you’d long denied yourself. 

The Strawhats are fearless, confident. So much so, that despite Law’s ever gloomy pessimism, you cannot find it within you to worry. For the first time since arriving in that dreadful place, you feel at home. You take a deep, cleansing breath in, and exhale fully. Luffy, Chopper and Usopp are restless waiting for the food that Sanji is preparing in the kitchen, jamming their chopsticks childishly into their own noses or ears. Nami smacks Luffy across the back of the head with an annoyed look, and Robin reads quietly to herself. Zoro leans against the side of the ship, a disgruntled look on his face and a bottle of sake in his hand. To Zoro’s right, there’s Caesar scowling petulantly, still confined by his sea prism stone handcuffs.  Franky is waiting for dinner below deck, refueling the ship with cola from the last Coup de Burst, while Brook blankets the whole evening with tinkling violin music. 

The only one missing, you notice looking around, is Law. Standing up from your spot, you approach Zoro and snatch the sake out of his hand abruptly and take a swig. Rather than giving it back, you keep it with you, walking away too quickly for Zoro to object (though you can hear him grumbling irritatedly from behind you, before he calls for another bottle). 

You climb the steps to the helm, and notice him alone at the stern of the ship, leaning over the banister. He doesn’t notice you at first, allowing you an extra few silent moments to stare at him from behind. It’s an usually warm evening, so he isn’t wearing his heavy cloak, opting for black long-sleeved t-shirt, which he has cuffed up to his elbows. With his forearms exposed, you can see how his tattoos wind around the sinews there, seeming to underline toned bands of muscle under the skin. Your eyes rove his back, which is visible through the fitted black shirt. His broad shoulders narrow to a thin waist, and he stretches his arms above his head, exposing a sliver of skin from his lower back. 

You’d been so occupied by the sight of his body, you almost didn’t notice another striking difference in his appearance. Normally covered by his ridiculous mushroom hat, his shaggy hair is exposed and rustling in the salty breeze. He reaches a hand up to run through his hair, pausing to grip the hair at the back of his neck roughly, as if he was frustrated. You find yourself wondering if his hair is as soft as it looks under the light of the moon and the stars. You feel a coil tighten ever-so-slightly within your core, but you approach anyway.

“Don’t you want dinner?” You call, making sure you gave him plenty of time and space before you closed the gap between you completely. He stiffens momentarily, but relaxes as he hears your voice again. “Sanji should be almost done.”

He cranes his head over this shoulder toward you, but makes no effort to turn his body with it before turning his head back face forward, looking out onto the vast ocean. You stand next to him, leaning your elbows on the banisters as he was doing beside you. You offer the bottle of sake to him wordlessly. He takes it, drinking from it for a moment before handing it back to you. 

Though he does not indicate it, he appreciates your silence in moments like these. He never feels pressured to talk around you, to present fake niceties or meaningless chatter. He also, much to his horror, has found that he appreciates your company in and of itself. Your presence simultaneously calms and arouses his nervous system. He doesn’t understand it, but being the man of science that he is, he plans to observe and collect data. For research purposes, he tells himself. Only research purposes. 

“Not really hungry,” He replies, giving you a sidelong glance as you hang on the railing beside him. 

“C’mon, Law, what’s it been? Like three days since you last ate with us?” You jab him in the side in a way that you hope comes off as playful, though you really are becoming increasingly concerned with his disengagement.

He shrugs, neither in confirmation or denial. Over the time you’d spend together, you found yourself growing more and more attached to him daily. You found that you always wanted to have eyes on him, and were viscerally uncomfortable when he wasn’t around. Law, too, had become accustomed to some uneasiness with your absence, or his from you. He had no frame of reference for this feeling, and it scared him. But he wanted to understand it, needed to understand it. 

“You’re starting to worry me a bit,” You say, breaking him from his thoughts. You do your best to keep it lighthearted, but as he flinches a bit at the words, you realize that you have not been very lighthearted at all. 

Law hates that he cares about you, what you think of him. Even worse, he hates that you care about him. He knows from the way you look at him, recognizing your look of longing in his own eyes whenever he dared to look at himself in a mirror. But caring about him has only meant death for the people he’d cared about before. An image of Corazon’s bloodied body flashes through your mind and he cringes again. He casts his eyes downward and presses his mouth into a thin, tight line. 

“Hey,” You say softly. It breaks your heart to see him like this. You want him to feel better. You want to be the one that makes him feel better. You’re warm and brave from the alcohol you’ve consumed and you place a hand gently on his forearm. Recoiling from your touch, he inhales sharply. But you don’t remove your hand. 

“Hey,” You say again even more quietly, afraid that even a decibel too loud will scare the fragile husk away from you. “It’s going to be okay. Tomorrow, that is. We have a solid plan.”

Law finally dares to look at you. Like that first day that you met, his eyes are filled with dejection. He wants very badly to believe your words. Coming out of your mouth, they sound so sweet. Coming out of your mouth, he almost allows himself to yearn. To yearn for a way to change the past, but also to yearn for a new, and brighter future. 

“I’ve lost everyone I’ve cared about.” Law replies. “They’re all either dead, or so far from here that they may as well be, considering the fact that I will likely never see them again.” 

His voice drops to a whisper. “You know as well as I do, y/n. This mission has a very low chance for success.”

You don’t reply. You do know this. It is Doflamingo, afterall. But for some reason, his reply irks you more than it normally would.

“What the hell, Law?” Your irritation is clear in your voice. “Is it so difficult for you to be even a little positive? Is that really so unbearable?”

His eyes narrow. “When you’ve seen the shit that I’ve seen, yeah, it is really so unbearable.” He mocks your tone, making you fume.

“The shit that you’ve seen?” You raise your eyebrows. “The shit that you’ve seen? We’ve all seen shit we’d like to forget, Law! The only difference between you and all of us, is that we don’t carry that shit on our back like a fucking martyr all the damn time.” Your voice climbs to a yell, and it echoes across the dark water in the stillness of the night.

He hates that you’re right. Hates that he’s such a coward, and that he has a martyr complex to top it all off. 

“How arrogant you are,” You continue, your fury propelling you forward. “To believe that everything is always your fault. Sometimes life is just shit, Law. That’s all there is to it.”

Angry tears well up in your eyes, but you don’t back down. You refuse to look away. 

He is silent, but holds your gaze as intensely as you are holding his. You feel the air shift, anger slowly shifting into something altogether new. You notice, with sudden clarity, that you are close to Law. Very close. You are trembling, but he is too. A long, shuddering breath passes through his open lips. His breath smells faintly of the sake, the sweetness of the fruit mingling with the acrid scent of the alcohol itself. 

He places one hand on the railing behind you, brushing against your side as he does. “You’re right, y/n,” He says, never taking his eyes off of you. “Sometimes life is just shit.” 

He leans down and continues. “A lot of times life is just shit. And you can’t deny that this situation is shit too. We’re relying on a lot of variables to fall into place in just the right way, at just the right time, and in my life, that has pretty much never fucking happened.” His tone is hard. 

He is being drawn to you in a way that confounds him. As if he was possessed, he closes the final few inches between you. His chest and yours are pressed against one another, and the tattooed hand on the railing slowly drifts to the back of your head. He leans his forehead on yours and tangles his surprisingly delicate fingers in the strands of your hair.

“So,” He murmurs. Your heart is pounding so hard that you wonder if he has ripped it from your chest already. “In case life is as shit as it’s always been...in case we don’t make it back…”

His lips meet yours. At first, you can’t breathe. You freeze, but you feel him stiffen and try to pull away. He thinks he has made a huge mistake, ruining yet another good thing in his life with his egocentrism. But your hands grasp the fabric of his t-shirt, and pull him back into you, so his lips never leave yours. 

He sighs in relief, moving his mouth deliberately on yours. If this is the last night he has, he wants to make it worth something. He wants one night to be worth something. Your fingers unfurl from his shirt, and you slide your hands up his chest, finally wrapping your arms around his neck. One hand is at the nape of your neck, the other at the small of your back. 

There is not an inch of space between you, not a millimeter. Your lips and his fit together like he and misery always had. He allows himself to believe, just for this moment, that you could replace the misery in his life. He allows himself to believe that this won’t be your last kiss. He gives himself permission to believe that you and he would be here again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that.

For once, he grants himself the license to hope.

[simpingforcadbury]

Chocolate and Floss of the Non-Fairy Variety

7b. The Changing Tides of Love (1966)

Palaaw was helping to hold the steel frame in place as Willy mounted the chocolate birds and frogs onto the liquorice root trees in the Chocolate Room when the words slipped him.

“You love her don’t you?”

Willy sputtered indignantly, caught off guard by that singular nonchalant question. “Well I enjoy her company immensely and I admire her skill if that’s what you mean. She’s a valuable asset to the factory. That’s all.”

Palaaw gave him a passing glance as though his sudden red complexion was the most normal thing in the world. Liar.

“Hmm. I was just curious is all. You’re different than you were before she came here.”

Willy had most definitely taken a page from Kristie’s book when she mentioned the lack of life in his chocolate panorama, and in the off time that he had, he would carve out more chocolate creatures that would inevitably be displayed there.

“Ah well, I admittedly have been spending a lot more time with her. Perhaps that’s what you mean when you say different.”

Gingerly, he pushed the birds into the steel frame, taking care to position them as he had intended in his sketches.

“And by that you mean giving her access to the Chocolate Room in record time? How long did it take for you to let Dr Anderson in there? 6 years was it? And you showed her in less than 4. After the Incident I never thought you would trust anyone enough again to let them come so close to your work again.”

“I have a feeling that I can trust her. I don’t think she’s the type of person who will try to sell me out. How do you feel about her?”

“I like her. She’s a kind soul who treats me with understanding and respect, which is more than I can say for some of your ilk. I don’t care much for your kind but I can find it in me to care about her if that’s any indication.”

“That’s high praise coming from you. I’m glad you approve.”

Willy and Palaaw shared an interesting dynamic in the little bubble like chocolate kingdom he had created. Palaaw was like a second father to him and in matters of the heart and whatever else was bothering Willy at the time, he was the usually first to hear about it.

“And you’re glad I approve because...?”

“I know what you want me to say and I won’t say it.”

“But you’re thinking it. And we both know it.”

“I know... it’s just difficult for me to find the courage to tell her how I feel. She gives me perspective and when she’s with me the world is all the more colourful than it was without her.” He closed his eyes gently, staring up at domed the artificial sun. Becoming more aware of the radiating heat on his skin.

“She sees me for who I really am and she cares for me still when I’m disarmed. I feel safe sharing things with her that I’ve not shared with other people. It’s a strange feeling, but a welcome one that leaves me warm and joyful.”

“You had better tell her sooner rather than later. She’s a woman who doesn’t have time to muck about and she’s actively looking for a partner. You might find yourself having some competition.”

“I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself if she didn’t feel the same way and I broke our friendship over it.”

“What makes you think she’s not interested? Besides, with the amount of time you spend together, you may as well be dating without the label. For goodness sake Willy, even if she wasn’t, I doubt she’s going to cut you out of her life unless you do something vulgar or severe. And you wouldn’t do those things.”

“I think she might potentially be interested romantically. But she never turns down an invitation to go out with other men either.”

“Maybe it’s because she has the same fear that she’s misinterpreted and that this will end in losing the friendship you share.”

“My goodness this doesn’t get any less complicated.”

“Well, you can uncomplicated it for yourself by asking how she feels about it. Direct is always good. I never really understood the... wishy washy way you do your courtships here. But I understand how you feel about the whole situation. I was the same way with my wife before I confessed - nervous, afraid, unsure. I can tell you though that after the fact you’ll feel much better because you’ll know where you stand in this strange half-dating half-friendship bond you share.”

“How did you know she would love you back?”

“I didn’t. I had a clue yes, but I never truly knew until I asked her.”

“I think I’ll do the same. One day. It rips the heat out of me to see her being pursued. I’m afraid to lose her, but with the way things are going now, it seems that I’m going to lose her either way.”

“Don’t be such a passive coward. At least with one of those ways, you’ll rest easy knowing you’ll have tried your best to win her.”

“That’s harsh, Palaaw. Surely you would know just as well from your youth.”

“I’m sorry, it’s been a long time and I just wish that I could’ve saved myself from worrying and given myself the same advice I’m giving you now.”

There was a tentative quiet between them.

“When do you think would be a good time to tell her about it?”

“I daresay the sooner the better.”

“Well, she is planning to hold the Christmas dinner soon...”

“I like what you’re thinking!”

[kanene-yaaay]

Go Virge, go!

Kanene’s note: TODAAAAAAAAAY IS A SPECIAAAAAL DAYYYY!!! DO YOU KNOW WHY?? THAT IS RIGHT! BECAUSE TODAY IS @why-not-a-tickle-blog BIRTHDAY!!!! Gooooosh!!!! I know I already did a whole speech before, mah friendo, but you’re just so amazing and lovely! Aaaaaa I’m happy for being your friend! <33

Okay, I got a little carried away! Enjoy the gift! x3

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* This characters don’t belongs to me! They all belong to Thomas Sanders and his series Sanders Sides!

* This is a SFW Tickle-Fanfic, so, if you don’t appreciate this kind of content, please, look for another blog. There are a plenty of fabulous arts in this site!!  ^w^)b

* Oneshot. Something around 3.800 words.w-)b. Lee!Virgil and Ler!Patton in Human AU.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any and every advice is very very welcome! \(-w-)/

* Since  it’s a gift: Essa fanfic não será traduzida, mals. Thankys for reading, my lollipops, especially you, Livvy!! Have a wonderful and incredible day just like you! 

[~*~]

Patton was confused. A lot.

 And that wasn’t even a whole brand-new thing in his life.

 Patton got confused quite frequently, being honest.  

He got confused when he accidentally fell asleep on the couch and woke up four hours later with all his house painted in the dark of the night and without a single drop of memory about where he is or who he is for some minutes. Patton got confused when his attention was caught in some adorably adorable video of kittens being the best thing in the world and quickly ran to Virgil’s room just to show them to him, not understanding why his friend can’t stop looking at him quizzically until Virgil finally asks why does he has a spoon in the knot of his cardigan and Patton jumps because HIS COOKIES ARE IN THE OVEN AND HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED-

 Oh. Wait. That is not what he was talking about. Focus, focus!

 Anyway. Life is confusing, feelings, thoughts, actions, trying your best, keep going, look at the refrigerator just to realize you have no idea of what you were supposed to be searching in the first place, humans…

 Yeah, especially humans.

 Patton stared at the figure of his friend laid on the couch, absently looking at his phone while a piece of smile adorned his face. The movie both decided to watch paused in the background as the one currently in the kitchen waited for the popcorn get ready, his hand held lightly his chin and a frown rest peacefully in his features, mirroring the same expression he always saw on Logan every time he was confronted by a problem whose solution seemed impossible to find.

 It was The Pose of all the incredible genius in the world, right? Therefore, in some moment about now the answers of all his questions should magically pop before him, unfolding and refolding in logic patterns just like in all the mystery series and books.

 Right about noooow…

 …

 Now?

 …

 Well, it didn’t work.

 Patton pouted, turning to pour the warm and probably delicious snack in big bowls that both would pretend they wouldn't be able to finish before even getting in the middle of the so expected movie. He grabbed the bowls and headed to the other room, reprising the entire day in his mind, a faint echo of Logan saying that could help basing his decision.

 Everything started in the morning with Patton arriving at their breakfast table only to find Virgil, but not his usual Virgil.

 That was a Virgil without his hoodie.

 Not that it was a totally strange thing! Usually by his free mornings he would prefer to wander in the house on his comfortable pajamas, however the thing today is… he wasn’t on his pajamas. He was prepared to fight the world – actually Virgil was just going to work, but he said this sounded more badass - on his black Slipknot shirt, jeans and the hoodie nowhere near to be seen.

 Besides that, today was predominantly cold. Cold enough for the one wearing glasses end up missing his favorite cat cardigan by the time he arrived their house, searching for the so dearly craved cloth in every little corner until Patton came across the scene of his friend - his best edgy, lovely friend cutely wearing it and being equally playfully bratty when tried ask it back, pulling out his tongue out as his form dazed in a chase the moment Patton’s promise of ‘physically fight for it!’ – which was a lie, obviously. He gave up the vestment the very moment his eyes locked in a Virgil playing with the cat ears sewed in it – flew from his mouth.

 And, after getting tired out, they cuddled! Okay, this wasn’t nearly a strange occurrence between both, albeit was one of those rare moments when Virgil was the one who initiated it, laying on his lap with a pout and a sharp look, as if he dared the other to say something (and Patton didn’t!! He swears!! Squeals. Do. Not. Count. As. Words.), feeling comfortable enough to even start a Poking War as they were accommodating themselves on the cushions, rays of giggles, squeaks filling the place for some heartbeats before both decided to metamorphose their last bit of routine into a movie night.

 Which was exactly what they were doing!

 Now, don’t get Patton wrong. He was absolutely delighted by everything! Knowing Virgil felt comfortable, safe enough to act nonchalant around him was so heart-warming he could almost feel himself melt in happiness!

 ….But…

 But there was this signal in the back of his mind. A particularly different gleam in the other’s eyes he had already seen before, however couldn’t quite place its meaning yet. Some words unpronounced amongst his lightly snarky demeanor. Some little thing that made Patton feel playful and happily bubbly as well, except he couldn’t really grab the exact information, the exact why or the exact memory.

 Not yet, at least.

  [~*~]

  Virgil was about to fucking quit it.

 No, actually, he was about to fuck quit everything when he woke up of his incredibly, horrible, wonderfully teasy tickle dream. The tingles of the dreamy tickles still ghostly buzzing on his body as he quietly giggled, burying his face in the pillows and kicking about everything on his bed, eyes firmly closed as the memories bathed his mind in a flow made to increase awfully his lee mood.

 And then one of his favorite artists posted some new things on Tumblr, which obligated him to see all their new posts and, who knows, accidentally click in the tag ‘My arts’ of them, which end up with him re-finding other works he had already forgot about, path that consequently leaded to some more reblogs and therefore another bunch of tickle blogs which, of course, made his lee mood at work almost unbearable.

 At least he had the cold to blame if someone questioned about the persistent blush spread on his features.

 After everything, finally: The calm and quiet of home, broken by his determined decision to try to make – somehow - Patton tickle him. His friend was soft and playful by nature, and he already knew Virgil liked tickles (quite of an interesting story involving a meme, a movie and the power going out. Heh. Do not ask about it.) so, I mean, the worst part was already gone, right? It wouldn’t probably be that bad. Virgil would just act naturally, smoothly following a few advices he found in some blogs discussing this topic and hope, for the sake of his life, the Universe wouldn’t follow Murphy's Law for ONCE.

 Of course, that didn’t happen. OF COURSE.

 Virgil tried first to be a bratty. He stole Patton’s cardigan and even ran across the house in an attempt to maintain his new possession. He stretched while laid in Patton’s lap: no hoodie, ticklish spots right there. In the last shot he even let himself giggle every single time his mind wandered to the dark corner designed especially for the subject. The one wearing smudged make up even started a poke war!! A poke war!! What kind of poke war doesn't evolve to a tickle war where he would, so sadly and despise his best efforts, lose spectacularly??

 He crossed his arms and DID NOT pout, blowing grumpily some strands of hair that fell in his vision’s field.

 “I would sell my soul for a tickle.” Virgil growled, his usually careful façade crumbling under the quite persistent thoughts of fingers spidering on his ribs, counting each one of them before lazily dragging the tip of the nails to his quivering tummy, dancing and poking unbothered by his squi-

 “What was that?”

 Virgil squeaked, jumping some centimeters in the air when the voice of his approaching friend filled the room, the words getting stuck in his throat, his head shooting in the other’s direction, wide eyes.

 “What.” He eloquently offered.

 “I was too far, didn’t hear what you said, sorry. Could you repeat, please?”

 Virgil tried – failing - to not blush. Patton was… actually being serious, right? That wasn’t any kind of tease, even if the traitor little demon he usually called brain unhelpfully unlocked all the memories of all the tickle fanfics he read that began with that exact same words. “Nothing. It was nothing.” He promptly ignored the way his voice came out slightly high.

 “Oh, okay!” Patton kindly smiled, putting the popcorn on the coffe table and looking for some space on the couch to lay down while Virgil pressed play, the show’s opening quickly filling the air and silence hanging between both. Patton stopped. Suddenly Virgil felt a shiver run across his whole body, his gaze turning to his friend, only to find the one wearing glasses staring at him intently.

 “You like tickles.”

 The word only was enough to jolt his body back to a sitting position, butterflies starting to wake up, proceeding to fly the most desperate as possible in his stomach, his brain fuzzing, crumbling for answers of How and When and What the Fuc-

 “What? NO! I mean, yes but how- when did you just…”

 “Oh!” Patton gasped and Virgil felt his whole face in flames once the realization of the shiny gleam in the other’s eyes, almost as literal stars shining, hit him. Maybe… Maybe something he had done before finally work? “That is why you initiated a Poke War? Were you trying to make me tickle you? Vee, you just needed to ask!”

 Yep. No. Nope. No way. That was definitely worse.

 Virgil tried to hide himself in his hoodie, deciding he could very much rather perish in his Lee Mood than stare at the pure love and awe gazed right in his direction. His lips curving in a shadow of a smile for a second when he pressed himself further on the furniture, noticing with a grumble leaving his mouth the only armor he owned was the cat cardigan. Hood pulled up and his face firmly pressed on his knees, he ignored the way his excited giggles started to bounce and dance in his throat, resulting in his own body bounce a bit.

 “Knock knock…” Virgil felt a light tapping on his knee.

 “Fuck off.” The hissed answer ran without letting he even think about it, too much occupied in pretending to not notice how much this position left his entire tickl- I mean, sensitive torso vulnerable and how much not seeing what was happening increased second by second the tingles and shivers crazily racing in his skin.

 “Gasp! Virgil!” The one dying in the cat cardigan internally rolled his eyes at the literally audible gasp his friend vocalized, almost being able to see the playful mood taking over his expression as it always has when they swore around him. “I should tickle you for this, Mister Potty Mouth!” Yes. Yes!! Come on, come on! “But I won’t.”

 Hey now, what.

 “What?!” His head shot upwards absurdly fast, a fact which, obviously, he would deny it to the end of his living and non-living days.

 “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide or ignore your desire for tickles every time you have them! Especially…”

 ‘Please – see? I know how to use some freaking good words. - Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say, Patton. You’re cool, you’re a funny guy, you have good intentions but you have any ideas of what the fuck will happen??’ Virgil found himself almost pleading, the sentences already running in his head, but his lips firmly gripped in the fear to let out more than these simple words.

 “… Since I’m totally okay in tickling you! Oh, wait. Did you just squirm? Aww, Virgil!! That is so, so adorable! You’re blushing, too! Awwwwww!!! Okay, okay, okay, I’m… Imma gonna die of cuteness. You’re truly the most precious being I’ve ever met!!! Wait, what I was just saying…?” 

 ‘I will die! No! I’m already dying! See? You already accomplished what you wanted!! Let’s move on to the next damn part!’

 “Oh right!” Patton lightly hit the side of his head. “I’m glad to tickle you! Truly! All you have to do is…”

 ‘Dude, Patton, Pat-Pat, Popstar don’t…’

 “Ask me! Please, please, please!!” Virgil stared him dead in his eyes, crossing his arms, his cheeks so hot that he was surprised his face didn’t melt yet. “Aw, don’t give me that look, kiddo!” Virgil just narrowed his eyes further. Patton pouted, his ��Puppy Eyes’ expression – more like an unfair weapon - showing and nailing cracks on Virgil’s resolution.

 They stayed like this for a while, until Patton abruptly lifted his hands, his fingers wiggling on Virgil’s direction, the movement so out of blue that catched his friend out of guard, a true yelp jumping from him before he grumpily growled and let himself fall on the cushions.

 “I can’t.”

 “Of course, you can, kiddo! I’m rooting for ya! Wanna see?” And then he started to fold and unfold his fingers, approaching them to Virgil inch by inch “Go Virge, go! Go, Virge, go! Goooo, Virgeyyyy, go!” Inch by inch. Close and then even closer. The boy with a wobbly smile in his face felt like he couldn’t tear his eyes from the movements, the butterflies seeming to freak out in his stomach in the rhythm of the cheers.

 He hides his face behind his hands. Patton was going to be the end of his existence.

 “Stohop it.” Dammit. He was breaking.

 ‘Come on, guy! You can do this!’ He internally whined.

 “Ooh, is that a beauty giggly giggle what I hear? The cheering should be working then, don’t you think?! We believe in you, Virge-poo! And we can’t wait for when we…” Virgil dared to spy the scene between his fingers, only to see Patton’s hands barely touching his sides, his fingers positioned in a claw shape. “… getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha!!” They suddenly moved, clawing unbearably away and terribly close at each couple of words.

 No. Virgil did NOT squeal nor squirmed closer to the fingers. Fuck you. Nobody asked. That is none of your business anyway.

 ‘Just… just don’t think about it! Pull it off. Like… I don’t know! Like a stupid band aid!’

 “It is going to be so much fun! I didn’t even tickle you yet and you’re already giggling excitedly! Think in all your wonderful, beautiful laughter flying everywhere when I finally tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle you silly!! You’ll be giggling up a storm! Happy gasp! Pun inserted!”

 Virgil obligated himself to take a deep breath and not stare the warm, teasy hands which were oblivious of the intern turmoil caused as they rested on his sides. Their tips very lightly, almost impossible to feel and – even more difficult to ignore - poking the ticklish skin, as if they simply couldn’t bring themselves to stay still. The one laid on the couch and yet hiding his face felt the urge to kick just to get off all the pleasantly nervous energy building up in his body.

 “Virgey-wiggly-wiggley…~”

 “TICKLEMEPLEASE!”

 Patton squeaked excited, the teasy grin immediately giving space to the joyful smile. “Of course!” He grazed his fingers up his sides to his ribcage, the nails lightly drawing circles around each one of the ribs, receiving a quick tasering in the middle of them before going up to the next one, letting for a piece of moment Virgil’s bubbly and more high-pitched giggles fill the room alone.

 The cat cardigan owner ran the tip of his fingers up and down, up and down, up and down his sides, watching in complete awe the way the other squirmed at each infinitesimal move. He stopped the movement on his right side, his eyes gleaming behind the lenses as accompanied Virgil adorably wiggling away from the reminiscent tickles, as if he tried to escape from the evil fingers scribbling in that exactly spot which connected his left side to his tummy and leaded cute, sweet titters escape from his gigantic smile.

 A devious plan shinned in his head.

 Patton ceased the tickling in order to give him a breath, smiling at the pout that didn’t take too long before blooming in the other’s features.

 He quickly poked his left side, immediately hearing quiet, bubbly giggles dance across the air as Virgil wiggled to his right, only to be warmly welcomed by scratches of one single finger on his lower back, making his breath stop so fast a snort escape. Virgil widened his eyes, his hands automatically clapping in his mouth at the same time a big, gleaming grin took over Patton’s expression. They stared at each other, fingers never stopping, squirms never ending.

 “No.” His voice was slightly wobbly, giggles beginning to intertwine his words as his friend scribbled softly again. “No no no! You are a- dON’T!- such a dork!!! No!!”

 They initiated the cycle again. Every time Virgil squirmed to escape from the left tingles to the right tickles one more finger was added to the attack, soon leaving the blushed poor victim kicking sporadically when the ten fingers resumed their light, tickly attack. “I’m going t-t-to kick you!!” and then was subdued to the snorts and squeals painting his fast titters.

 The one who wore the cat hoodie which moments before had slipped from his head in the ““fight””, now showing clearly the red strongly flaming his cheeks and the tip of his ears shook his head from side to side, the frown he tried to form being immediately won by the smile taking over his features. Virgil let himself embrace the feeling completely over, laughing freely, almost doesn’t believing this was actually happening.

 That it didn’t matter how much he tried to escape nor squirm, the tickling just followed his movements, just as all his (fake) protests didn’t stop the excited, evil teases pouring from the other’s mouth. Not to tell how only the big, happy gaze from Patton was definitely not helping in the slightest his current state at all!

 He was certain. There was no way out of this. He was going to melt and   d i e.

 And he was loving every single second of this.

 “Aww! Tickle, tickle, tickle, Virge!! Look at the happiness shining in your face!! Someone really, really loves some tickly-tickles, am I right? But don’t worry, Virgey-wiggley! I will give you all the tickles you could ever want! Like here!” He booped Virgil’s bellybutton “Here” A couple of fingers slid on his waistline “And here, and here, and here and everywhere!” Fingers flew quickly, traveling on his hips, collarbone, sides, behind his ears…

 The incapacity to know where Patton would strike next killed every single drop of coherent thoughts of his mind, which could only focus on the tickling and how much it was unbearable and everywhere and it  t i c k l e d . His giggles grew to chortles, his hands flying from his own face to lightly push Patton’s, dislocating his glasses and freeing surprised chuckles mixed with his own squeaks.

 “Virgil!!” Patton ceased the playful attack in order to retire the other’s hands off his face, before both knew they’re wrestling, laughter cutting their acts and weakening their movements. “Virge!! I will go to another spot this way!”

 In a blink of an eye one of his friend’s arms hugged his sides and Patton felt a malefic grin crawling his lips without even noticing its presence. Very much different from Virgil, who in the same heartbeat realized his mistake, using the opportunity of the instant of distraction to lightly push the cookie lover off him, quickly dashing across the house. All his instincts gleaming and sparkling the sign of ‘Survive’ in his veins.

 The only reason of what Virgil forgot about the numbness from spending so much time laid on his legs, resulting in trips that definitely made him lose some crucial speed as he encircled the couch, capturing with the corner of his eyes the scene of Patton jumping of the cushions and following his escape route. The crackling dancing in the air owned by nobody specific.

 His heart beat faster, the joy raced his nerves and made his tummy tingle in advance just for imagining the exact moment where two arms would hug him firmly yet gently from behind and his ears would be set on fire the very same moment Patton would say-

 “Gotcha, Giggly Storm! I gotcha, gotcha ya!!” Patton dug his thumbs right above Virgil’s hips, the remaining fingers clawing the poor, sensitive skin in his back, leading belly laughter to took over his friend’s sentence, his knees buckling and legs uncontrollable kicking as Patton sat with him on the floor, pressing his back on his chest and resting his head on his shoulder.

 “Patton!! Pahahatton, come on, no!” Patton just hummed, two fingers calmly walking on Virgil’s waistline. “Don’t you dare!! Don’t you fuckin- gah!” The nails began to slid in the length of the belly, going from a side to another as elected soft snorts and bouncy giggles.

 “Tickle, tickle, tickle, Virge!! Did you thought you could run away from the Tickle Monster? Poor unfortunate soul ~. Now the Tickle Monster has to give you a bunch of more ticklish tickly tickles just for this, don’t you think?!” And then Virgil felt the tickles speed up to scribbles and clawing and wiggles delivered in every inch of his tummy. Going in random patterns, drawing forms on his sweet spot, up and down, from a side to another, over and over again. Quick enough to make him sporadically squirm and kick, a rain of squeals, yelps and squeals flowing from his lips, yet soft and light enough to let him rest his head on the other’s chest and just enjoy the feeling.

 “Awww! Look at how much shaking your tum-tum is! It is probably so happy in receiving its so much craved tickle tickle tickles, right, Virgey-poo?” The answer was only a blushy Virgil hiding his face on Patton’s neck, giggling nonstop.

 “Nonono!! It’s not!” And, if that move only led to a now very exposed neck to be gifted with some special scratches? They both pretended it wasn’t on purpose.

 Patton just rolled his eyes, playfully exasperated, quietly chuckling when the other jumped with the quick squeeze delivered on his hip.

 It didn’t take long before Virgil let out his first ‘Stop’, which Patton happily obliged, don’t having the heart to move when he realized Virgil’s breath becoming calmer, his eyelashes closing as he snuggled closer to the one wearing glasses.

 The duo knew very well they would probably regret napping on the hard, cold floor later, yet none of them managed to bring themselves to care, especially when Virgil’s quiet snorts with the second tickle dream of the day lullabied Patton to an equally peaceful dream.

  [~*~]

  Random non-said thing: Patton only remembered that information because the movie they’re going to watch was one of the trilogy they were watching when Virgil gathered up enough will to tell him he likes tickling.

[earthendandinbetween]

When your queen sells your goddamn soul lol. (set in the pp1 timeline.)

The tone of the zigoton territory had grown tense--- Well, it had already been tense. That. That wasn’t quite the right word to describe the feeling in the air as Queen Kharma had gathered troops around herself to speak. Unsettling, perhaps. She was clearly out of her mind at this point, paranoid and exhausted from the unending movement of the patapons.

She had become irrational at one point, conspiring with a demon and promising to sell her own soul for power to stop the patapons march. All to protect her tribe from certain doom, should they reach their goal. He could understand the sentiment, getting stronger and remain undefeated. But to sell one’s soul…

It didn’t matter much, there wasn’t much anyone could do to convince the queen otherwise. The general knew he certainly couldn’t say much. He was not one taken very seriously, usually only accepted as extra muscle and not much else. That was fine by him, he had gone into training for a reason, they were right to rely on him for such.

There was a strange empty feeling he couldn’t shake still, gathering just in-front of the lower ranking soldiers that had been called. The only other...living general, Spiderton, was off at the other side of the meeting, flanking the slightly more unruly newly trained zigotons to keep them inline. Kharma glared down, seemingly impatient at the slow arrival of all called.

It had to be important. The general had a sinking suspicion he knew what the queen had to say. That her soul was no more, and that the patapons will now be defeated. They would of course. With power like that? He almost envied it. ...Almost. Remaining in good graces with the real deities of zigoton legend was still more honorable and reliable, even if he didn’t always seem like one to believe in such.

“I see you’ve all made it,” The queen’s voice was low, tone sharper than it had usually been in the past, stress had really taken over, “Spiderton, I’m to assume you’ve gotten your...Trainees under control.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good,” Kharma continued her speech, tone growing colder with each word, “As we all know, those filthy, no good patapons have disposed of General Gong. Their march means the end of us all, and it cannot come to fruition under any circumstance. There is no price too high to pay to prevent this.”

“Yes, of course Queen Kharma,” Spiderton cut in softly, “We will do what we must. But, I must ask, why isn’t the rest of the tribe with us? This is an awfully small gathering for something you stated was of utmost importance-”

“Quiet.” There was a twitch in the moth queen’s wing, “Stay in your place, General Spiderton. I will explain as I need to.”

Beetleton snuck a smug ‘grin’ in the kibaton’s direction as he was chastised. Served him right for always being so fickle about information, even if--- and he always hated to admit this--- the other general was right. This was a very specifically small gathering, unheard of for the likes of this tribe.

And of course, was the statement of the demise of General Gong. Unfortunate, surely. He hadn’t known him well, but the other was always very wise sounding. Full of strange advice and the like. But, when you are too weak to protect your tribe, death was the only fair price to pay.

In the tateton’s own words that he could recall ‘death is a path all warriors will face’. Beetleton couldn’t help but feel a smug pride. The only thing to take him would be age, not a pathetic spat with another tribe. He would do better.

��This was my last straw,” Came the voice of the zigoton queen once more, “My last natural line of defense, broken and strewn aside by those patapons. Though extreme, I have sealed the deal with the demon known as Gorl.”

There were a few mutters, shocked gasps, questions of why. This surely in the end wouldn’t end well for the queen. He saw it as an interesting, if not utterly ridiculous sacrifice for the sake of her people.

He would not do the same actions if he were incharge. No, the dekaton would simply train harder, work better, find more deadly and effective routes. They were a few eyeballs roaming the forests whom had not known proper training for years.

No, this was simply all a mistake. Luck on their parts, but nothing more. They would be snuffed out shortly.

“I know, it seems unbelievable,” Queen Kharma silenced the small crowd, “To sell one’s soul for the sake of her people. But, Master Gorl had promised such power to me, though he is merely a servant to the underworld.  I knew I had to play this smart, get the most out of it all, and have a deal struck with the true overlord.”

Something very suddenly did not feel right from the way she had spoken. He was very aware he was not the only one noticing an oddity to the way this gathering had gone as a few soldiers exchanged nervous glances between one another.

“Not only have I been granted power,” Kharma ‘grinned’, “I have gained an ally in Gorl himself to assist us in battle! A true undefeatable plan, something to assure those eyeballs will never roam again in any lifetime.”

“Q...Queen Kharma,” Spiderton interjected again, a shiver present in his tone and body, “Gaining the allyship of a demon is--- Dangerous. An incredibly difficult deal to strike unless you have enough to trade--- How did you---”

“Spiderton, you are no fool,” The zigoton queen approached closer to the group, “And I am sure you are fully aware of what I had to trade to Gorl.”

“Kharma you didn’t-”

“Silence!” Her tone was loud, gruff enough to quiet down all of the fear stricken murmurs among the troops, “Gorl demanded strong souls. It is a warrior’s right to serve their queen, to protect their tribe at all costs. I have chosen all of you and for good reason.”

He wasn’t hearing this right. He couldn’t be.

Certainly this was a cruel joke.

“Now, not to worry,” The moth flitted back, attempting to offer some kind of calming resolution to the horror she just unleashed onto the unsuspecting group, “As your leader, you can trust me to make choices that are only for the good of all. I promise this will work out, and our tribe will thank us. The world even, when it does not end from those cursed creatures.”

It was an eerie silence that followed. One of shock. Beetleton held his tongue forcefully. With Kharma this out of her brain, any attempt of reason or disagreement could only make it worse.

Hah. As if that was even possible.

“We are going to make preparations for battle soon,” The tone was ever shifting, from cold and angry, to suddenly incredibly cheerful. It was uncomfortable, “I want you all at the front lines. I will be staying with Gorl for reinforcements, should we need such. He and his kind have granted us all such a great gift of power, do not waste it. Do not make what I have done go in vain.”

With a turn of her heel, the moth moved further among the desert fortresses marking their homelands, her last words being a quick ‘Dismissed’. That was all.

No sorrow, no apologies for being so rash. Nothing. Like none of these soldiers mattered a lick to her. Just free souls to exploit. Free shields. She had never shown him much respect, but to disrespect the other soldiers? It was unheard of. Demon trickery, of course, yet he still held contempt for her as well.

He felt ill. The dekaton always admired the thought of growing stronger, to be one who would never fall in battle. But to lose one’s soul as the cost of such strength.

Was that truly all this tribe saw out of him? Not a fellow soldier, not a fellow zigoton. A fighter and nothing more. Easily disposed of in this way.

With a tighter grip on his dreamweaver, the beetle begun to take heavy, uneven steps towards the training grounds. So be it. If that’s all they wanted, that’s all he would be.

He would make sure all would understand how foolish it would be to cross him. Force his so called queen to remember how lucky she is that he is on her side and not on the opposing.

He could easily drift into the part that was so demanded of him. He didn’t care, it was clearly all he had.

So be it, then.

[alolowrites]

After All These Years

Summary: After being apart for six years, you wonder if you are ready to see Toshinori again. 

Tag: @centerhabit (Tagging you as promised! Sorry for the long wait!)

Author’s Note: It is finally here! After four months (I think?), I finally finished writing the sequel for The Point of No Return. For anyone who is new, I highly recommend you read that story first! Apologies for taking a long time getting this story out; I was playing around with a new formatting style. 

Once again, I appreciate the incredible response The Point of No Return received from everyone! I’m still touched by all the comments, likes, reblogs, etc it got!! Thank you once again!!

Without further ado, please enjoy the story!

Word Count: 2.3K+

Six years.

It’s been six long years since you’ve returned home.

Stepping off the plane, you bow at the flight attendant and follow the crowd through the gray tunnel. You find your luggage with ease and quietly walk away. Various shops appear, each selling items travelers needed last minute; one man rushes inside to buy a neck pillow while a woman debates between two beverages.

There’s one store that catches your eye with its colorful display. Hero merchandise spews out the door as pop music plays to lure interested customers into the shop. A familiar color scheme stands out from the rest, tugging your heartstrings a bit too harshly; the imaginary marionettist enjoys seeing you suffer.

“I AM HERE!”

You jump from your spot. The famous phrase repeats and you look below to see a little girl squeezing the All Might plushie toy with glee. She skips away, the toy dangling in her hand and All Might��s comical smile mocking you until it disappears into the crowd. Not even thirty minutes in Japan and already you are regretting your decision.

No, no. You can do this.

You had more than enough time to heal from the pain. At least that’s what you tell yourself to soothe the nerves squirming around. You push them aside. As much as you enjoyed your stay in America, you missed Japan; it is your real home. No matter how far you travel from the island, a part of you stays behind.

And it’s that part of you which holds you back from ultimately moving on. A shuffling noise grabs your attention. An employee proudly adjusts a life-size cardboard cutout of All Might outside the store, and a few tourists stop to admire him. Despite not being real, you feel his eyes stare deep into your soul; your fingers twitch and your skin suddenly becomes itchy. Sighing, you drag your feet down the hall to find the exit.

You need a drink.

—

Glass cups clink over the loud noise bursting inside the restaurant. Laughter erupts at the table after you shared a hilarious story during your time in the States. The mood is lively and relaxing as you savor the rich sake flavor exploding in your mouth like fireworks. Oh, how you missed these fun outings with your friends. Seconds later, a waiter passes by with actual fireworks fizzling on a delicious looking plate. It must be someone’s birthday today.

Your eyes follow the plate and blink. Peeking out from a distance are strands of blonde hair. They are like a batch of wild yellow wheatgrass flowing in the meadow. Someone’s large frame is blocking the view. Another waiter brings more appetizers to your table, but you ignore the food begging for your attention. Nothing matters except for the hair currently teasing you from afar. It can’t be him…right?

You stop breathing when the boulder moves, and you're disappointed. It's just a random stranger laughing into a guy's shoulder. You slump back against the booth. The sake is clouding your mind and making you see things. Maybe you need some fresh air; it is getting kind of stuffy in this dimly lit sauna.

Just as you stand, the whole restaurant rattles. You grip the table as the lights sway and flicker uncontrollably. Confused murmurs buzz in the air until the building shakes again with greater force. Dust puffs out from the ceiling, and tiny cracks spread through the walls. Everyone rushes outside, the streets filled with headless chickens panicking like no tomorrow. You grab onto your friend’s hand for dear life to avoid getting separated.

The vibrant district spirals into chaos as the screams deafen your loud heartbeat. You have no idea where the crowd is going nor what is happening. You are a fish who got caught in a net trap with no way to escape. Suddenly the madness stops, and a live shot appears on the large TV above you. Glowing on the screen is a bloody All Might fighting against the incarnation of evil itself. As the battle rages on, you stumble forward when you see him.

Toshinori Yagi. The man behind the All Might mask.

You watch in horror as Toshinori—in his real, but weak form—persisted on with the fight. Grown men wail in pure agony that their throats turn red. A woman desperately bites her fingers that she almost chews them off. The tension in the air is so palpable that it suffocates you. Clutching your shirt, you hopelessly witness the bloodshed battle getting progressively worse until a miracle happens.  

Toshinori rises from the ashes to deliver the final blow. It rocks the entire ground and makes everyone lose their footing; even the TV screen flickers, but doesn’t lose the picture. When the black smoke clears, you see Toshinori is alive with a victorious fist in the air.

He won.

That’s the last thing you remember before passing out in your friend’s arms.

—

A rainstorm hurls through the city.

The water droplets lightly tap on your black umbrella, the noise surprisingly soothing to your ears that you almost fall into a small trance. A bright light illuminates half of your face, exposing the conflict swirling through your eyes. One car rushes down the street, and you go back to avoid the tsunami wave coming from the sidewalk.

Once the coast is clear, you walk forward but stop when you reach the sidewalk’s edge. You can’t go beyond this point. You’re afraid you’ll drown, not from mini sea emerging on the road, but from your guilt that is deeper than an oceanic trench.  

The hospital’s bright lights glare back at you. Toshinori is in one of those rooms recovering from the severe wounds he received days ago. As much as you want to visit him, see him in person, hold him in your arms…you just can’t. Not when you feel so guilty for leaving him six years ago in roughly the same state—a damaged hero.

You grip the umbrella’s handle. Someone calls your name.

Whipping around, you relax at the sight of a tan overcoat standing a few feet behind. The man walks over and dips his chin to greet you. “Welcome back. It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Detective Tsukauchi.” Your lips curve into a faint smile. “How’s work treating you? Still hectic as ever?”

“Crime never sleeps,” he jokes, and you two chuckle. The rain furiously falls all around you, drowning out the brief happiness you felt. Tsukauchi gazes at the hospital. “You should visit him. I’m sure he’ll appreciate seeing you again.”

“I can’t. Not after what I did to Toshinori six years ago.” Your chest tightens as you fight back the tears. “There’s no way he’ll forgive me after I broke his heart.”

A hand squeezes your shoulder. Watery eyes stare up to meet Tsukauchi’s reassuring smile, the warmth shielding you from the cold rain pouring down. He murmurs, “Something tells me he will.”

You stare back at the hospital; a light turns off, and you wonder if that is Toshinori's room. Tsukauchi’s words echo through your head like a soft chant. You shuffle forward and stick one boot out on the street; it hovers above the fast stream running toward the drain. With a deep sigh, you pull the foot back and hang your head low.

You couldn’t do it.

—

Toshinori adjusts his arm sling until he’s comfortable.

Despite being sickly frail, he feels the bed mattress sink under the weight of his heavy thoughts. He hasn’t been the same since the Kamino incident. The power of One for All no longer flows through his veins, making him feel like an empty vessel. Toshinori was the Symbol of Peace—the strongest hero in the world. Now he is a retired hero after defeating All for One, for good this time. Yet Toshinori wonders if this is all just a dream. The sharp pain shooting down his arm convinces him otherwise.

It will take time for Toshinori to get used to his new life.

A soft knock interrupts his thoughts. Toshinori glances at the door with furrowed eyes; he’s not expecting any visitors today. The doctor medically cleared him this morning.  

“Come in,” Toshinori answers, fixing his arm sling. The person enters, and he glances up only to do a double-take; his blue eyes land on you, mouth agape in astonishment. Sitting straight on the bed, he chokes out your name and asks, “Is it really you?”

“Hi, Toshi,” you weakly smile, putting aside the wet umbrella as you calmly approach him. “It is me. Do you mind if I sit here?”

He numbly shakes his head as you take a seat on the chair. The dam bursts, and all his memories of you swarm at him like a massive tidal wave. Toshinori endures the brutal force even if he nearly drowns on the spot. He blinks and notices something off about you. You’re smiling, but your eyes tell a different story. They are empty and full of despair as if you are in mourning; it worries Toshinori very much.  

An awkward silence falls between you two. Your finger anxiously scratches the chair’s armrest while Toshinori’s feet shuffle on the floor. Every ounce of your self-confidence goes down the drain the longer you stay quiet. Guess that pep-talk you did outside moments ago had a time limit. You bite the bullet by breaking the silence.

“How are you feeling?”

“To be honest with you, broken.” There’s a brief pause before he profoundly sighs, “And also a bit lost.”  

“I know what you mean.” Toshinori’s ear twitches at your whisper and snaps his head up. You squirm under his intense gaze. Your eyes roam to the gauzes tightly wrapped around his injuries he received from the fight; it gives you a deja vu moment. You clench the armrest, the guilt eating you alive. “I’m sorry…”

The hero frowns. “Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything—”

“Yes, I did! I left you, Toshi!” He hears the pure anguish tainting your voice as watery eyes come into view. With quivering lips, you croak, “When you proposed to me, I accepted it knowing fully well the sacrifices you must make for the greater good. Yet, I got scared after you decided to go down the path that might result in your death and just…abandoned you. You trusted me, loved me, and I left you.”

A tear rolls down your cheek, which breaks Toshinori’s heart.

“I thought I made the right choice by staying far away,” you whimper, hands curling into fists on your lap. “But the longer I did, the more it hurts me knowing your inevitable fate was getting closer.”

Toshinori unconsciously scoots closer to you, ignoring the pain shooting from his sensitive wounds; they don’t matter to him right now. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. Out of nowhere, you shoot up from the chair and stand in front of the retired hero.  

“I was in Kamino the night you fought All for One, probably nearby too. When I saw you, the real you, on TV and at death's doorstep, I-I just thought about the day at the hospital six years ago. During that moment, I realized one important thing…”

Your body trembles as you unleash everything with a swift but powerful confession that leaves him speechless.

“I still love you, Toshinori. I always have, and I always will. If you had died on that night before I had the chance to say this—”

You choke as your throat goes dry…

…and then break down, crying into your hands.

The intense feelings you kept buried deep inside your heart finally manifest into the light. No one knew you carried this agony for so long. Toshinori grunts as he stands up from the bed and carefully comforts you with his good arm. He holds you close, not caring if your tears bleed through his white shirt and wet his bandages.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your ear. “I’m sorry for making you feel this way. It was never your fault; if anything, it was mine. I’ve made many mistakes throughout my life. However, my biggest mistake was losing you.”

He steps back to graze your damped cheek gently. His fingertips twitch as they remember the softness of your skin. You close your eyes and enjoy his feathery touches.  

“I should have fought harder for you, for us, all those years ago.” Toshinori bores his majestic blue eyes into yours. They are alive and filled with deep admiration for you. “Despite what happened, just know that I love you, and I never stopped loving you. Not once.”

Your heart skips a beat while his throbs like a steady bass drum. He reaches inside his pocket, and you gasp when you see the engagement ring shining against the light. It’s the same one you left behind all those years ago.

“Although my time on Earth may be dwindling, I hope to cherish every last second I have with you. It’s still your choice, but…” Toshinori clears his throat and grasps your left hand. Determination swirls inside his eyes while asking, “Will you accept this ring and marry me?”

“Yes.”

You squeeze his hand as elation surges throughout your body. Toshinori slips the ring on your finger, the cold metal snugging around your skin. Oh, how you missed the feeling of it after six long years. Without hesitation, he captures your lips for a sweet but passionate kiss; the pain washes away and you are giddy.

Pulling away to rub your eyes, you pout, “I probably look like a mess.”

“Nonsense, you look beautiful.”

“Always the charmer,” you playfully tease, sniffling a little. A ray of sunlight shines through the windows, basking the whole room in a warm, golden glow. With soft eyes, you caress his cheek and smile. “Now how about we get out of here and take a nice stroll through the park, for old times’ sake?”

“I would love that.”

It’s as if nothing has changed between you two after all these years.

As always, thank you for reading!

[archaneanscribe]

Eight Days

I tried my hand at expanding on and reimagining the detail's of Julian and Lena's first meeting. Part of the Archanea Chronicles.

The heavy iron door of the cell slammed shut with a dreadful clatter, but Julian could barely hear it over the ringing in his ears.

Hissing in pain, he rolled over onto his back on the cold, hard floor, the relief he felt at no longer lying down on his broken arm negligible at best. This is what happens when you betrayed the Soothsires, after all. You get beaten until you're black and blue, and are thrown away to rot.

"Bastards..." he growled under his breath once he had heard his former-allies-turned-captor's footsteps retreat a good distance, "I knew they were a bunch of animals, but they didn't even have the decency to kill me..."

"Are you in need of healing?"

If he were in better shape, Julian might have jumped out of skin at the sudden realization he wasn't alone. Seeing that he wasn't, he just twitched at the voice coming from his right, lolling his head in that direction with considerable effort. He couldn't get a great look at his cellmate due to the sideways angle and probable concussion he had, but he could make out a staff in their hand.

"Yeah, but why bother?" he replied, letting out a huff of air that was supposed to be a sigh, but was more of a pitiful shudder, "They'll just beat me again tomorrow."

"And I will heal you again tomorrow."

He diverted all his energy to focusing his vision in order to really see his companion. Red hair, white clothes, a staff... it was that girl! The girl who was the reason he was here in the first place.

She seemed tired of waiting for an answer, because a flash of light illuminated the grimy cell as a warm feeling washed over him. As a bandit, he was rarely on the receiving end of healing magic, so he silently marveled at the feeling of bone reconnecting and flesh pulling back together. It wasn't painful, but it was definitely... odd.

As quick as it began, it was over, and he was good as new.

Well, he felt more gently used instead of on the verge of death, which was good enough. He still ached, but he was able to sit up now. After doing that, he scooted backwards until his back rested against the wall. Feeling more human, he was finally able to see her properly. Despite having been in here for a week longer than him, the only things that seemed to be wrong with her were impressively dirty robes, and tired, tired eyes.

At the same time, she was appraising him as well, but with medical curiosity, "Are you feeling better?"

"Much," a beat, "Aren't you worried about what they'll do to you? They might be idiots, but it'd take more than an idiot to not figure out what happened here."

She shook her head, brushing some hair aside to reveal a small cut, "When this happened, your leader was quite angry with the man who did it. I am more..." her expression, which had previously been impassive, grew bitter, "...valuable, if I am undamaged."

Yeah. He knew exactly what she meant there.

"That's probably true. Never scuff up the merchandise," he said the last word with venom, "That used to just mean jewels and trinkets, not people."

Setting her staff aside, she cautiously moved closer to him, stopping an arm's length away, "Kidnapping women is not something you did before?"

"No!" he shouted defensively, forcefully snapping his jaw shut to regulate his volume, "No. We did plenty of unsavory things- we stole and we killed, sure, but we had our limits. But then Hyman took over. Bastard has been pushing those boundaries day by day. But he finally crossed the line when he," he gestured towards her, "You know."

She nodded, "Is that why you are here? You objected to your leaders actions?"

"I just couldn't let it continue. It'd have been bad enough as it is, but you're not just any woman," he pointed to her staff, "You're a cleric! A holy woman! A healer!"

Her face softened into a smile, and it softened his heart, to see something so beautiful in this setting. She closed that final distance between them, laying a hand on his forearm- her hands were small, but the skin was rougher than he expected, "You have a good heart."

While she had been on the money before, now she was as wrong as could be.

His shoulder was still tender, but he shrugged her off, "You don't know what I've done. Not being alright with selling people isn't anything special."

"You chose to stand up for what you believe in. Most sit back and watch, no matter how much they object."

"Look, lady-"

"Lena."

He looked at her like she had grown an extra arm, but her smile only grew, like a flower emerging from a crack in the cobblestone, "My name is Lena. What is your name?"

More than a little lost at the direction this interaction was headed, all he could do was blink numbly as he replied, "Uh, Julian. I'm Julian."

"Well, Julian, there is something you need to know. The other staff I have is Warp. It is very rare and valuable, worth much more than my life."

"Why-"

"If you are truly so blackhearted, you will call for one of your associates and tell them this. I'm sure they would let you go free if you did."

His eyes drifted over to where she had been sitting before, and true enough, he saw a staff that was much more ornate than what she had used on him. From there, his gaze moved back to her, a serene smile still gracing her face (which he was increasingly noticing was quite lovely).

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You stood against your comrades for my sake. I believe I owe you the honesty."

What a strange woman.

Seeming content that she had accomplished whatever her goals were, Lena moved back to the side of the cell she was originally in, sitting all too calmly for someone in her situation.

If she noticed him staring at her in bewilderment, she said nothing.

---

When their guard arrived later that night, he beat Julian within an inch of his life once more. True to her word, Lena healed him again.

He didn't utter a peep about her staff.

---

Julian really couldn't tell you why Hyman didn't decide enough was enough and just kill him properly, even as the days ticked by. Maybe he just lost interest. Maybe he thought that being in a cell next to a beautiful woman, unable to do anything with her was punishment enough (he would think that, the pig).

Or maybe, just maybe, he was smarter than Julian gave him credit for, and knew that his former subordinate was growing more attached to the cleric the longer they were imprisoned together, which would make her eventual fate hurt him worse than any torture.

It would be tough not to notice.

They never brought any food or water just for him, but Lena always offered him some of hers. He had turned her down.

On day three, his stomach had triumphed over his mind.

After that, he let the arrangement slide, so long as she agreed to eat more of it than she gave him. He was used to being hungry, after all.

On day five, they started to talk. The time before hadn't been entirely silent, but that had been most out of necessity, like asking for privacy when relieving themselves. It was the fifth day that she, almost speaking more to herself than him, began to recount her life story. The granddaughter of a nobleman who gave away all his time and money to help those who needed it, she chose to follow in his footsteps, renouncing her title and leading the life of your average cleric.

That was selling her short, actually. She walked paths hardened warriors refused to tread, such as traversing the Ghoul's Teeth to treat those who lived in the border villages, those who everyone else had abandoned as fools or unable to be saved.

"I am simply doing what I must as a cleric. I am no better than any of my sisters of the cloth."

He couldn't help but see her as much, much more than that.

So moved he was, that when she asked about him, he was more honest than he ever was to himself. He told her about his father, who on his deathbed had tried to impart good values on his boy. Telling him to protect those who need it, to be kind and fair to everyone around him.

He also told her how he, an angry sixteen year old boy at the time, had disregarded those teachings when a tough looking older man had taught him how to pick locks. There was no remorse in his voice when it came to him stealing to survive, nor was there any judgement in her eyes.

The regret came later.

It came in the times when he had stolen from those who had less than he had. When he has participated in raiding the nearby villages. The nights when he heard young boys cry out for their fathers amidst the flame and he didn't sleep.

On day five, he cried. As the tears came, she placed a soothing hand on his shoulder and let it linger.

---

On day six, he asked her if she could absolve him, as a holy woman.

"You can only find absolution through your own actions, Julian. Your soul is in your own hands."

---

On day seven, he asked how exactly the Warp staff worked. She said it couldn't take the wielder with it.

Later that night, they overheard their guard mention to another brigand that they finally found a buyer for their "prized merchandise".

---

On day eight, he leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "We're getting out of here, together."

On day eight, she smiled.•

[innuendostudios]

Here’s How to Radicalize a Normie, a video essay on how the Alt-Right and their fellow travelers recruit. Clocking in at 41 minutes, 6756 words, 633 individual drawings, and 27 sources (including three full books), it is by far the longest and most heavily-researched video in The Alt-Right Playbook. I am very tired.

It took so long to put this behemoth together that my Patreon started to dip. So, maybe a little more than usual, if you want to keep seeing videos like these, please consider backing me on Patreon.

Transcript below the cut.

Say, for the sake of argument, your friend Gabe is starting to worry you.

Gabe’s always been just, you know, a regular guy. Not very political. He likes video games, sci-fi, comics, Star Wars, and anime. White guy shit. The only offbeat thing about him is you suspect there’s like a 20% chance he’s a furry. For all intents and purposes, Gabe is a normie.

But recently Gabe’s been spending a lot of time on some radically conservative forums, and listening to radically conservative podcasts, and picking some radically conservative arguments with you and your friends. You never would have expected this, not from Gabe, and, given the speed it’s happened, it’s worrying to think where it might be headed.

How have the Alt-Right gotten their hooks into your friend?

If you’ve ever known a Gabe, this video is for you. Here’s How to Radicalize a Normie.

Step 1: Identify the Audience

What you need to know before we begin is: around 2013, the Nazis went online.

Hate groups in the US, as tracked by the Southern Poverty Law Center, had been growing in number since the noughts, but, between 2012 and 2014, they dropped by almost a quarter. Patriot groups dropped by over a third. However, hate crimes stayed about the same. Radical conservatism was not shrinking, but decentralizing. Still radical, still often violent, but now full of white nationalist nomads unlikely to join a formal organization.

This didn’t make them harmless. What it did was protect their asses from the typical hate group cycle: getting the public’s attention, making allies in conservative media, swelling their numbers, and then eventually disgracing themselves with failures, infighting, and, often enough, members committing horrific acts of violence, which come with social and sometimes legal consequences for all the other members.

So the Alt-Right and their fellow travelers these days don’t so much have members. They have hashtags, followers, viewers, and subscribers. This insulates them from their own audience. If Gabe, as a member of that audience, were to go out and commit a crime on their behalf, there’d be little doubt they had a hand in radicalizing him, but it’d be very hard to claim they told him to do it. On some of these sites, where Gabe spends hours and hours of his day, he’s never created an account or left a comment; the people radicalizing him don’t even know he’s there.

This distributed nature is what makes the Alt-Right, and the movements connected to it, unique. (You may remember a notable proof-of-concept for this strategy.) Doing almost everything online has, as compared with traditional hate movements, dramatically increased their reach and inoculated them from consequence. The trade-off, as we will see, is a lack of control.

And so we come to Gabe.

Gabe exists at the intersection of the kinds of people the Alt-Right is looking for - straight white cis men who feel emasculated by modern society, primarily, though they do make exceptions - and the kinds of people who are vulnerable to recruitment. Gabe fits the first profile in that he got bullied in high school, and often feels he has to hide his nerdy side for fear of getting ridiculed. The Alt-Right also has success with men who can’t get laid or recently got divorced or feel anxious about an influx of non-white people in their community. These things can make one feel like less than the confident white man they’re “supposed” to be. And it’s the closest they will ever come to being minoritized.

Regarding the second profile, it’s important to know that Gabe is not categorically different from you or me. He’s a cishet white dude - his problems are not unique. There isn’t a ton of research into the demography of the Alt-Right, but there may be a higher-than-average chance Gabe has a history of being abused or comes from a broken home. You don’t know if it’s true of Gabe, he’s never said. But most abuse survivors don’t become Nazis. The things that make people like Gabe recruitable tend to be situational: it happens often during periods of transition, as dramatic as the death of a loved or as benign as moving to a new city. Things that make people ask big life questions. Gabe has concerns like economic precarity, not knowing his place in a changing world, stressful working conditions. In other words, Gabe is suffering under late capitalism, same as everyone, and it’s entirely plausible he could have gone down the path to becoming a Leftist.

This is not to make an “economic anxiety” argument: the animating force of the Far Right is and always has been bigotry. But the Alt-Right targets Gabe by treating his “economic anxiety” as one of many things bigotry can be sold as a solution to. It is their aim that, when dissatisfied white men go looking for answers, they find the Alt-Right before they find us.

Step Two: Establish a Community

Were Gabe pledging an old-school hate movement, there would probably be a recruiter to usher him into an existing community. But that’s the kind of formalized interaction modern extremists try to avoid. Online extremism has many points of entry, and everybody’s journey is unique, so rather than be comprehensive we will focus on what are, in my estimation, the two most common pathways: the Far Right creates a community Gabe is likely to stumble into, or infiltrates a community Gabe is already in.

The stumble-upon method has two main branches, one of which is just “Gabe ends up on a chan board,” which we’ve already done a video about. The other is kind of the polar opposite of 4chan’s cult of anonymity: Gabe ends up in the fandom of a Far Right thought leader.

These folks are charismatic media personalities (that’s charismatic according to Gabe’s tastes, not ours; I don’t understand it, either). These personalities may gain traction on any number of platforms, from podcasts to reportage to blogging, though the most effective platform for redpilling is, and yes I am biting the hand that feeds me, YouTube. They may get Gabe’s attention through fairly standard means, like talking about or even generating controversy to get themselves trending, while some of the more committed will employ dubious SEO tactics like clickbait, google bombing, and data voids (just pause for definitions, we don’t have time).

What they tend to have in common, especially the most accessible ones, is that they don’t present themselves as entry points to the radical Right. In fact, many did not set out to be Far Right thought leaders, and may not think of themselves as such (though they are often selling products, of which the Alt-Right are among their biggest purchasers, and it’s not like they’re turning the money away). How they present is the same way anyone presents who wants to be successful on social media: accessible, approachable, authentic. The face-to-face relationship a budding extremist forms with their recruiter or the leader of their hate group’s local chapter are here folded into one parasocial relationship with a complete stranger.

Why this person appeals to Gabe is they’re not selling politics as politics, but conservatism as a kind of lifestyle brand. They rely heavily on criticizing or ridiculing the Left: feminists are oversensitive, Black people unintelligent, queer folks doomed to loneliness, and trans people insane; I dunno if it’s a coincidence that these are all things Gabe thinks about himself in his low moments. By contrast, they don’t sell conservatism as having sounder policies or a more coherent moral framework, but that abandoning progressive principles and embracing conservative ones will make Gabe happier. Remember, Gabe isn’t looking for white nationalism or misogyny, what he wants is the cure to soul-sickness, and these friendly micro-celebs are here to offer a shot of life advice with politics as the chaser. It is extremely important that politics be presented as a set of affects, not a set of beliefs.

The second pathway is infiltration, which is its own beast. Media personalities sometimes become gateways to the Right almost by accident: they do something edgy, a part of their audience reacts positively, and, facing no real consequence, they do it more; this leads to further positive reinforcement from conservative fans, the rest of the audience acclimates, and the cycle repeats, the personality pushing the envelope further and further based on what flies with their increasingly conservative audience. In this way, they become a right-wing figure by both radicalizing and being radicalized by their audience.

Infiltration is deliberate.

The Far Right will reliably target any community that has 1) a large, white, male population, 2) whose niche interests allow them to feel vaguely marginalized, and 3) who are not used to progressive critique of said interests. This isn’t to say progressive critique doesn’t exist, or hasn’t been baked into the property from the beginning, but that it has been, so far, easy for white guys to ignore. As such, progressives within that community probably don’t talk politics much, and women and minorities are perfectly welcome to post, same as anyone, but just, you know, don’t, don’t make identity politics, you know, like, a thing.

Given Gabe’s proclivities, he’s probably already in a number of fan communities where he can geek out and not get teased. And this is where the Far Right will go looking for him

Communities are at their most vulnerable to infiltration at times of political discord. This can happen naturally - say, a new property in the fandom has a Black protagonist - or it can be provoked - say, a bunch of channers join the forum and say provocative things about race to get people arguing - or both. Left to its own devices, the community might sort out its differences and maybe even come out more progressive than they started. But, with the right pressure applied in the right moment, these communities can devolve into arguments about the need to remove a nebulously-defined “politics” from the conversation.

The adage about bros on the internet is “‘political’ means anything I disagree with,” but it’d be more accurate to say, here, “‘political’ means anything on which the community disagrees.” For instance, “Nazis are bad” is an apolitical statement because everyone in the community agrees. It’s common sense, and therefore neutral. But, paradoxically, “Nazis are good” is also apolitical; because “Nazis are bad” is the consensus, “Nazis are good” must be just an edgy joke, and, even if not, the community already believes the opposite, so the statement is harmless. Tolerable. However, “feminism is good” is a political statement, because the community hasn’t reached consensus. It is debatable, and therefore political, and you should stop talking about it. And making political arguments, no matter how rational, is having an agenda, and having an agenda is ruining the community.

(Now, it is curious how the things that provoke the most disagreement tend to be whichever ones make white dudes uncomfortable. One of life’s great, unanswerable mysteries.)

You can gather where this is going: a community that doesn’t tolerate progressivism but does tolerate Nazism is going to start collecting Nazis, Nazis whose goal is to drive a wedge between the community and the Left. Once the Left acknowledges, “Hey, your community’s developing a Nazi problem,” the Nazis - who are, remember, trusted, apolitical members of the community who might just be kidding about all the Nazi shit - say, “Did you hear that, guys?! Those cultural Marxists just called all of us Nazis!” Wedge. Similarly, any community members who say, “but Nazis though” are framed as infiltrators pushing an agenda, even if they’ve been there longer than the Nazis have. They get the wedge, too.

This is how fandoms radicalize. They are built as - yeah, I’ll say it - safe spaces for nerds, weebs, and furries, and are told that the Left is a threat to their safety. Given a choice between leaving a community that has mattered to him for years and simply adjusting to the community’s shifting politics, the assumption is that Gabe will stay. This assumption is right often enough that a lot of fandoms have been colonized.

What is true of both of these methods - Gabe finding the Right or the Right finding him - is that Gabe does not come nor stay for the ideology. He’s here for the community, the sense of belonging, of being with his people, of having his fears validated and his enjoyment shared. The ideology is simply the price of admission.

Step Three: Isolate

There is a vast, interconnected network of Far Right communities out there, and Gabe is, at this point, only on the periphery. In order to keep him in, they need to disrupt his relationships to other communities, and become, more and more, his primary online social space. Having made this space hostile to the Left, they now seek to break his connections to progressives elsewhere in his life.

This is hard to do online. The whole appeal of moving radicalism to the internet is that your away-from-keyboard life doesn’t have to change. You are crypto the moment you log off. Some thought leaders will encourage their audience to cut ties with Family of Origin, or “deFOO,” but, even then, they can’t monitor whether the audience has actually done it the way an in-person movement could. And so alienating Gabe from the Left is less controlled, and, consequently, may be less total. How much Gabe isolates is up to him.

But the vast majority of Far Right media presumes an alienation from the Left. Part of conservative bloggers and YouTubers making the Left look pathetic is doing a lot take-downs and responses. This is a constant repetition of the Left’s arguments for the purpose of mockery, and, for Gabe, it starts to replace any engagement with progressive media directly. He soon knows the Left only through caricature. It also trains him, if he does directly engage, to approach the Left with the same combative stance as his role models. (For reference, see my comment section.) And this is only if he doesn’t partake in one of the many active boycotts of “SJW media.”

In addition to mocking the Left’s arguments, they also, curiously, appropriate them. This is one part sanitization: liberal centrism is more socially acceptable; indeed, many figures on the outer layers think of themselves as moderates, even as they serve as gateways to radicalism. But, also, many of Gabe’s problems could be addressed by progressive leftism, so they sell him racist, sexist versions of it. Yes, there is a problem with workers being underpaid and overextended, but the solution isn’t unions, it’s deporting immigrants; yes, there is a chronic loneliness and anger to being a man in the modern age, but it’s not because of the toxic masculine expectations placed on you by the patriarchy, it’s women being slutty; yes, wealth disparity does mean a tiny percentage of elites have more influence over culture and politics than the rest of us combined, but the problem isn’t capitalism, it’s the Jews. And it’s hard for Gabe to reject these ideas without, in the process, rejecting the progressive ideas they’re copied from; the Right’s “take the red pill” is, to the untrained eye, similar to the Left’s “get woke.” (Or, at least, the bowdlerized version of “get woke” that is no longer specifically about race which came to fashion when white people started saying it, grumble grumble.)

Take the red pill or reject them both; either is a step to the right.

As this rhetoric slips into his day-to-day conversation, even as seemingly harmless “irreverence,” it may strain relationships with people who are not entertained by this shit. Off-color comments about race and gender can certainly be wearying for female and non-white friends, which can lead to a passive distance or an eventual confrontation [“why is everyone but me so sensitive?!”], which only seem to confirm what his reactionary community says about liberal snowflakes. If he says these things on social media, he may get his account suspended, and, if he comes back under an alt, you can bet his new reactionary friends will be the first to reconnect, applaud the behavior that got him banned, and repeat should he get banned again. A few cycles of this and he’s lost touch with everyone else.

Also, his adoption of the insular, meme-laden terminology of this community makes him less and less comprehensible to outsiders.

Over time, sources of information get replaced with community-approved ones: conservative news, conservative YouTube, conservative Wikipedia if he’s really committed. The Algorithm soon takes note and stops recommending media from the Left. He stops watching shows with a “liberal agenda,” which usually means shows starring women and people of color. Now, there is evidence that the human mind responds to fictional characters similarly to real people, and that consuming diverse media can decrease bigotry in ways roughly analogous to having a diverse group of friends, which is one of many reasons we say representation matters. By consuming a homogenous media diet, Gabe stymies his ability to have even parasocial relationships with anyone who isn’t a cishet conservative white dude or one of their approved exceptions.

To the extent that any of this happens, it happens at Gabe’s discretion and at his own chosen pace. It has not been forced on him, only encouraged and rewarded. But the fact that it hasn’t been forced can make him all the more willing to accept it, because it seems safe to consider; even though his life and social circle are changing to accommodate, he does not feel committed. But many Gabes have walked these halls, and, if they close the door behind them, there’s nowhere left to go but down.

Step Four: Raise their Power Level

(...and they say we ruined anime.)

Consider the ecosystem of the Alt-Right as layers of an onion, with Gabe sitting at the edge and ready to traverse towards the center. (No, I’m not just going to reiterate the PewDiePipeline, though, if you haven’t seen it, go do that.)

The outer layer of the onion is extremism at its most plausibly deniable. Without careful scrutiny, the public-facing figureheads could pass as dispassionate, and the websites as merely problematic rather than softly fascist. It is valuable if Gabe believes this as well; that, at this stage, he believe the bigotry is simply trolling, the extremists an insignificant minority, and any report of harassment faked. That he believe where he is is as deep as the rabbit hole goes. And that he continue to believe this at each successive layer.

People in the deepest crevices of the Alt-Right self-report getting redpilled on multiple issues at different times in their journey to the center of the onion. If Gabe’s first red pill is about the SJWs coming for his free speech, he’ll think that’s all anyone in his community believes; there’s no racism here, people are just making a point about their right to use slurs. Then, when he gets redpilled on the white genocide, he’ll laugh at those Alt-Lite cucks who tried to sweep the race realists under the rug, and at himself for having once been one, but acknowledge that those channels and websites are still useful for onboarding people, so he won’t denounce them. At the same time, nobody takes those manosphere betas seriously.

And this process is reiterated with every pill swallowed: gender essentialism, autogynephilia, birtherism, Sandy Hook truth, pizzagate, QAnon if he’s really out there. The heart of the onion is typically the Jewish Question, but these can happen in any order, and in any number. But each layer sells itself as being, finally, the ultimate truth. Each denies the validity of the others; the layers ahead don’t exist, they’re made up my liberals, while the people behind are asleep where you are now awake. That’s why they chose “the red pill” as their metaphor: take it, and everything will be revealed. That’s why it cozies up with conspiracism. But what’s supposed to follow is that this knowledge help Gabe in some way, and it doesn’t. Blaming immigrants doesn’t actually fix the economy, and hating women doesn’t make men less lonely. But, having been alienated from everything outside the onion, once that sinks in, the only recourse on offer is to seek out the next pill.

And pills are easy to find. Those within the network have laissez-faire relationships, even as they, on paper, disavow one another. When they need a source or a guest host, they aren’t going to go to the Left; they’re going to feature each other. The Left is the enemy; their ideas are beneath consideration, and the only reason to engage them is for public humiliation. [Shapiro’s book.] But you can interview “western chauvinists” and that doesn’t mean you’re endorsing them, just, you know, it’s fine to hear ‘em out, nothing should be off-limits in the marketplace of ideas. Besides, Nazis are apolitical.

And because these folks keep showing up in each others’ metadata, regardless of what they say, Google thinks there is definitely a relationship between the guy “just asking questions” and the guy denying the Holocaust. Gabe is softly exposed to many flavors of conservatism just slightly more radical than he is now, and is expected, at the very least, to not question their presence. This is an environment where deradicalizing - listening to the Left - would be sleeping with the enemy, but radicalizing further? You do you, buddy.

Gabe’s emotional journey, however, is somewhat more complex. If you’ve spent any time reading or watching reactionary media you’ve probably noticed it’s really. fucking. repetitive. It’s a few thousand phrasings of the same handful of arguments. Like, there’s only so many jokes about attack helicopters! But these people just crank out content, and most of it’s derivative; the reason to pick one personality over another isn’t because they say something different, but because they say it differently. Gabe just picks the affect it’s delivered in.

Repetition dulls the shock of the most egregious statements, making them appear normal and prepping him for more extreme ideas. Meanwhile, the arguments themselves? They’re not good. (BreadTube will never run out of shit to debunk.) They are repetitive because they’re not good. They’re mantric. A good argument you only need to hear one time; if you can follow it, internalize it, and explain it to someone else, you know you’ve understood it. But a bad argument can’t convince you on its own merits, so it will often rely on affect. This can be the snappy, thought-terminating cliche, or the long, winding diatribe that sounds really sensible while you’re hearing it but when someone asks you for the gist you can only say “go watch these 17 videos and it’ll all make sense.” Both these approaches are largely devoid of content, but, gosh, if they don’t sound sure of themselves.

And that mode can be very persuasive, but it doesn’t stick the way a coherent argument does. It needs to be repeated, the affect replenished, because the words matter less than the delivery. There needs to be a steady stream of confident voices saying “we’ve got this figured out and everyone else is stupid” or Gabe’s gonna notice the flaws. They are not well-hidden.

And the catch-22 of returning to that stream over and over is that these communities are stressful even as they are calming. People afraid they will die virgins go to forums with people who share and validate that fear, and also say, “Yes, you will die a virgin.” People afraid Syrians are coming to kill us all watch videos by people who share and validate that fear, and also say, “Yes, Syrians are coming to kill us all.” Others have already pointed out that rubbing your face in your worst anxieties is a form of digital self-harm, but I need to you understand the toxic recursion of it: Gabe is going to these communities to get upset. Every emotion is converted into anger, because sadness, fear, and despair are paralyzing but anger is motivating; Gabe feels less helpless when he’s pissed off. And so, while he’s topping up on reassuring nonsense, he’s also topping up on stress. And, being cut off from everything outside the network, the only place he knows to go to release that stress is back to the place that gives it to him. It’s a feedback loop, pulling him deeper and deeper on the promise that, at some point, relief will come.

It is a similar dynamic that keeps people in abusive relationships.

When someone in Gabe’s community makes a racist joke, they are presenting Gabe with a choice between the human interaction of laughing with his friends and his societal responsibility not to be a fuckin’ racist. And not laughing seems ridiculous; everybody’s friends here; no one’s getting hurt; this is harmless. And so the irreverent race joke draws a line between the personal and the political, and suggests that one can be safely prioritized over the other. One way to look at radicalization is being asked to stick with that seemingly innocuous decision as the stakes are raised incrementally: first with edgier humor, and then comments that are funny because they’re shocking but you couldn’t really call them jokes, and then “funny” comments that are also sincerely angry, but, in each instance, since he laughed with his bros last time, it stands to reason he should keep favoring the personal over some abstracted notion of “politics.”

This is why the progressive adage “the personal is political” is among the most threatening things you can say in these spaces.

I’m not trying to make a slippery slope argument. Most of us who laughed at edgy jokes when we were teenagers didn’t grow up to be Nazis. It is a slippery slope in the specific context of being in community with people trying to radicalize you. Gabe is a lonely white boy in need of friends, and laughing at a racist joke is personal, while not laughing is political. Staying in a community that has Nazis in it is personal, and leaving is political. The personal is what brings people together and the political drives them apart. (The “only if some of them are bigots” part of that sentence is usually lopped off). There’s this joke on the internet that nerds perceive only two races: white and political. Following that logic, what could be more apolitical than an ethnostate?

They are banking on his willingness to adapt his beliefs to suit an environment that meets a need. That same need can be satisfied by white nationalism. There are few things more seductive to people who doubt their own worth than being told you are valuable simply for being white. And you can sub in male, cis, straight, allosexual, or able-bodied. It just takes priming: by the time Gabe officially embraces bigotry, he’s already been acting like a bigot for months. The red pill is simply the moment he says it out loud.

Change Gabe’s surroundings, and you change Gabe.

Step Five: ???

The final step in a traditional extremist group would be getting a mission. But that is one thing the Alt-Right can’t do. Once you start giving clear directives, you can’t play yourselves off as a bunch of unaffiliated hashtags and think tanks; you are now a formalized movement accountable to its followers, and can be judged and policed as such.

To my mind, Charlottesville was an attempt to become such a movement, taking things offline and getting all the different groups working collectively. And, as so often happens when these people get in the same space - especially with no official leaders or means of control over their members - it backfired. Their true colors came out before they were ready and a counter-protester lost her life.

This would be the point where, historically, an extremist group starts to disintegrate. Their veneer of respectability gone, they’re now hated by the public, the media wants nothing more to do with them, and everyone not in jail turns on each other or goes underground. This is also the point where the liberal establishment says, “My job here is done,” and utterly fails to retake control of the narrative, allowing the next batch of radicals to pick up more or less where the last one left off.

But to an already-decentralized group like the Alt-Right, Charlottesville was bad but eminently survivable. People retreated back to the internet, with its code words and anonymous forums, but that’s where much of the work was already done anyway. The platforms where they organized kept tolerating them, the authorities still didn’t classify them as terrorists, and any disgraced figureheads were replaced with up-and-comers.

The major change in strategy is that it doesn’t seem anyone has tried to formalize the Alt-Right since.

So where does that leave Gabe? He’s gone through this whole process of largely hands-off indoctrination - and I should stress his journey may look like what we’ve outlined or it may look different in places, this video is not comprehensive - but now he’s swallowed every pill he cares to, he blames half a dozen minorities for everything he sees as wrong with the world, and no one will give him anything to do. You’ve got this ad hoc movement frothing young men into a militant fervor and then just leaving them to stew in their own hate. Should we really be surprised at how many commit mass shootings?

This is a machine for producing lone wolves.

Leaving men to take up arms of their own volition is a way of enacting terror while being just outside the popular conception of a terror cell. There are also, of course, more classic militias that will offer Gabe clear directives - they’re recruiting from the same pool. And Gabe may stop short of this step, settling in a middle layer that suits him or finding the inner layers too extreme. But violence is the logical conclusion of an ideology of hate, and, should Gabe take this step, he can approach violence in the same incremental fashion he approached conservatism.

He can start with yelling at people on Twitter, and then maybe collective brigading, DDoS attacks, sharing dox, leaking nudes, calling their phone numbers, texting them pictures of their houses from the sidewalk. These acts of cruelty become games of oneupmanship within his community. All this can start as far back as Step 2, and get more intense the deeper he goes. Some people join explicitly partake in harassment and violence the way Gabe joined to talk about anime.

But this behavior can serve as a kind of buy-in. The Left and the feminists and the LGBTQs and the Muslims and the immigrants are all, within his community, subhuman. You’ve maybe heard the conservative catchphrase “feminism is cancer”; well don’t treat cancer by having a respectful exchange of ideas with it, but by eradicating it down to the last cell. Cruelty against the Left is framed as righteous.

From any other perspective, posting someone’s bank information is something you might feel ashamed of. Which creates a psychological imperative not to consider other perspectives. A thing that keeps people in is staving off the guilt they will reckon with the moment they step out. Gabe is also aware that anything he’s done to the Left could be done to him if he leaves; some communities even keep dox on their members as insurance. And the things he’s been encouraged to do to the Left will likely make him feel that the Left would never take him now; the radical Right is the only home he’s got. Harassment becomes another tool of isolation.

Steadily, options for Gabe are whittled down to being a vigilante or a nihilist. There are periods of elation: moments the Alt-Right feels it’s winning - or, more accurately, the people they hate are losing - are like cocaine. They are authoritarians, after all. But the times in between are mean and angry. They are antisocial, starved of emotional connection, consuming incompatible conspiracies that may at any point run them afoul of one another, devoted to figureheads who cater to but cannot risk leading them, and living under constant threat of being outed to the Left or turned on by the Right for stepping out of line. Gabe took this journey for the sense of community and purpose, and, but for the rare moments everything goes their way, the Alt-Right can’t maintain either. They can only keep promising his day will come, a story he could get from a $5 palm reading.

The feeling there’s nothing left but to kill yourself or someone else is so common it’s a meme.

But there is always a third option: Gabe can leave.

Pre-Conclusion: For Fuck’s Sake Do Not Make Gabe Your Whole-Ass Praxis

Before we continue, I want to state plainly that Gabe went off the deep end because he found a community willing to tell him that, because he is a cishet white man, the world revolves around him. Do not treat him like this is true.

If a fraction of the energy spent having debates with America’s Gabes were spent instead on voter re-enfranchisement, prisoner’s rights, protections for immigrants, statehood for DC and Puerto Rico, and redistricting, Gabe’s opinions, in the societal sense, wouldn’t matter. Reactionary conservatism is a small and largely unpopular ideology that is only so represented in our culture and politics because they’ve learned how to game the system.

And I get it. Those are huge problems that are going to take years to address, where, if you know a Gabe, that’s a conversation you could have today. And, if you think you can get through to him, it is worthwhile to try. This is a fight on many fronts and deradicalization is one of them. But it is only one, so please keep it in perspective. It sends an awful message when we spend more time trying to get bigots back on our side than we do the people they are bigoted against.

Your value as a lefty does not hinge on whether you can change Gabe’s mind.

Conclusion: How Gabe Gets Out

He may just grow out of it. These communities skew young, and some folks hit a point where hanging with edgy teens doesn’t feel cool anymore.

He may become disillusioned after the movement fails to deliver on its promises.

He may become disillusioned if something goes wrong in his life and his community isn’t there for him, if he feels they like his race and his gender but don’t actually care about him.

He may be shocked if he sees the Alt-Right at its worst before being appropriately conditioned. Charlottesville was a step too far for a lot of people.

His community may turn on him for any perceived unorthodoxy, and he may leave out of necessity.

He may be separated by circumstance from the community - a trip with no internet, hospitalization, arrest - and not be able to top up on the rhetoric. This may lead him to question his beliefs.

His community may disappear, either tearing itself apart or getting shut down by authorities.

He may have incidental contact with populations he’s supposed to hate, and have trouble reconciling who they are in person with what he’s been told about them. In his community, people bond over shared intolerance, but, suddenly, being tolerant helps him make friends. (This is one reason the Alt-Right has made a battleground of the college campus.)

He may form or revisit relationships outside the network, people who can offer him the connection he’s been looking for. This may reintroduce outside perspectives. More importantly, it rekindles his ability to have healthy relationships at all, something the Alt-Right has estranged him from.

As with recruiters, it seems these “escape hatch” relationships can sometimes be parasocial; coming to respect a public figure who is on the Left, or is critical of the Alt-Right.

Someone he is close to may compel him to choose, “me or the movement.” A lot of young men leave to save a romantic relationship.

Hearing stories from people who’ve already jumped may help; there aren’t a lot of public formers, and some raise suspicions as to their sincerity, but it is getting more common, and may be the closest we get to exit counseling for the Alt-Right.

He may become aware of the ways he’s being manipulated, or have them revealed to him, maybe because he stumbled into BreadTube, I dunno. Knowledge that you are being indoctrinated is no guarantee it won’t work - you are not immune to propaganda - but it can help one resist.

And he may revisit a core belief system that used to guide him, be it religion or social justice or a really wholesome fandom, and be reminded of the identity he used to have.

Moments like these, in isolation or in aggregate, can inspire Gabe to jump. They are also good times for friends to intervene. The reach and the impunity that comes with the internet means it has never been easier to fall into reactionary extremism. It has also never been easier to get out. People who exit skinhead gangs often fear for their lives; for Gabe, there’s a chance getting out is as simple as going to a different website. Much of his community does not know his name or his face and he may not important enough to dox.

What doesn’t get Gabe out - not reliably, not that I have seen - is an argument with a stranger who proves all his facts wrong and his ideology bunk. Facts don’t always work because facts don’t care about his feelings. This was about staying in a community, and holding onto an identity, that mattered to him. It was about belonging, and that is something a rando from the other side of the culture war can’t give him and probably shouldn’t be responsible for.

The theme here is human connection. Before he can do the work of disentangling himself, and facing the guilt of what he’s believed and maybe done, he has to know there’s somewhere for him on the other end of it. That the Right hasn’t ruined him. They’ve told him all of history is groups fighting each other over status, and, without his clan, he’ll be an exile. He needs a better story.

I don’t know that lefty spaces are ideal for this, in no small part because bringing someone who’s a bit of a Nazi but working on it into diverse communities is… questionable. And it probably wouldn’t be good for him, either; having just gotten out of a toxic belief system, he’s going to be deeply skeptical of all ideologies. In a perfect world, people who care about Gabe could build for him - to use a therapy term - a holding space. Someplace private - physical or digital - where Gabe can work out his feelings, where he is both encouraged and expected to be better but is not, in the moment, judged. That comes later. It is delicate and time-consuming work that should not be done in public, but we find these beliefs, built up over the course of months or years, tend to fall away very quickly with a shift of environment. Change Gabe’s surroundings and you change Gabe.

But, instead, a lot of people who jump are functionally deprogramming themselves, which is working for a lot of them, but it’s haphazard, and there are recidivists.

If you don’t personally know a Gabe, or have training as a counselor, you may not be in a position to help him. Possibly there are things you can do to disrupt the recruitment process or prevent infiltration of spaces you’re in - I’m looking into it, but talk to your mods - but, elephant in the room: meaningful change will require reform on the part of platform holders. Tools to disrupt this process already exist and are being used on groups like ISIS, but they’re not being used on the Alt-Right because they try oh so very hard not to get classified as terrorists (and also any functioning anti-radicalization policy would require banning a lot of conservative politicians, so there’s that...).

But what makes our story better than theirs is that the fight for social and economic justice, though it is long, and difficult, and frustrating, when it works, it fulfills the promise the Right can’t keep: it materially make people’s lives better. I am not prone to sentimentality, or to giving these videos happy endings. But one thing we have that the Alt-Right doesn’t is hope.

[lamiasluck]

An Eye for Art

Here’s my first non ego story! Set in a high end art auction, one piece differs from the rest. A classic haunted painting with a gruesome story, as well as many past buyers that returned it time and time again. It seems like a lost cause to sell, if not for a strange man with an eye for the spiritual.

@emptynarration @alvie-ashgrove @shy-marker-pliers @juju-on-that-yeet @m4delin @lildevyl @verse2wo @ferociousfangirlofmanyfandoms (sorry if you don’t wanna be tagged uwu)

-

The lively crowd travelled around the room with an eager attitude amongst all of them. All strangers, for the most part, but all united with the common interest of tonight’s gathering. A love for the arts. Or, more specifically, a love for buying things in an auction. Rich and pompous people throwing away their money and overindulging in fancy champagnes. Nothing more the dull hearts could need.

With numbered auction paddles in hand, the group bid on various works of art from all sorts of mediums. Many artists were getting their hefty dose of recognition from the rich connoisseurs. One spent half a decade carving a detailed statue of an angel and earned enough money to make a stone army. A painting, one of a detailed setting of cultures, was made by a man that almost missed the auction because he overslept. Truly, this was a game for anyone looking for their slice of fame.

All, but one, of the artists showed up to take credit for their hard work and revel in the praise. There was something for all walks of life on this particular night. The group setting it up got lucky with the pieces they could gather. Though, one of the pieces would be concerning to want.

As the night went on and the artworks got new owners, there was one piece left by the podium. An antique, by the looks of it, with beautiful, hand-carved framework and a setting of a valley, with women frolicking through a meadow. On the surface, it seemed lovely, however, the crowd exchanged wary glances amongst each other, like it was hideous. No artist taking credit for it, no one showing any interest. The auctioneer cleared his throat awkwardly.

“I know you must be tired of seeing this thing, folks, but it was recently donated back by the last buyer,” he explained. There was a tight smile on his face as he tried to lighten the mood. “How many does that make now? Two? Four? Maybe six, if you count the guy that could handle it for an hour…” he laughed lightly. Didn’t get many others chuckling with him.

Barely anyone wanted to look at the painting, let alone bid on it. Clearly, no one wanted it, by what the auctioneer saw. All those paddles stayed firmly to everyone’s laps. In a way, it looked like there were more statues for sale. A simple nod of the head could be interpreted as a bid, after all, if the auctioneer is that desperate. And he was. 

This painting had a story. Frequent attendees knew it too well by this point. The Valley Girls had a long history of buyers, ignorant or curious alike. Many could only handle the painting for about a week. An old piece with a background of murder and vengeance hiding behind that cheery setting of flowers and sunshine. The auctioneer let out a heavy sigh, shivering even standing near the damn thing. Those valley girls had small, but piercing eyes that seemed to follow whoever looked at them.

“I’ll be easy on everyone. Can I get, say, $50?” The auctioneer scanned the crowd for anything. “Going once…” The crowd stayed silent, which wasn’t surprising. “Twice…” Maybe this painting would be better off burned. It doesn’t matter if it’s made with rare oil paints, or that the frame was carved from the finest oak. Something like this shouldn’t exist.

“Oh, I’m sorry-!” a quiet voice spoke up, followed by a raised paddle to make the last second bid, Number 4, something no one had seen this entire night.

Everyone looked to see a young man standing behind the crowd. Short in height, so it was easy to miss him, but he dressed just as proper as everyone else here, in a suit jacket and turtleneck. He fidgeted with his glasses, looking down as everyone stared at him. 

“Sorry… I was thinking to myself.” This man kept his paddle raised. The only confident thing about him. 

“Are you sure, sir?” the auctioneer asked.

The man nodded. “Yes, that’s in my budget.” Everyone else looked shocked. Such a kind and shy man was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

It simply wasn’t believable. “Do you know what this is?” Screw making a sale, the auctioneer was concerned. “The history?”

Another nod. “Yes… I’ve done my research,” the man replied, confused. “I know about all that… and a couple interesting facts!” He pointed to the corner of the painting. “Those red dots there aren’t more flowers, actually. It’s the blood… from the murder… um.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, that’s a bummer fact… ignore me.” He ducked his head again and let his fluffy, black hair hide his embarrassed face.

Well, at this point, couldn’t deny a bid. “You can put the paddle down now,” the auctioneer whispered and was met with another quiet apology. He got the crowd’s attention back to continue, albeit much quicker. “Do I hear 75? Going once, twice- sold! To the man that shares too much.”

Very hesitant applause followed. Everyone gave the man odd looks, before talking amongst themselves as they dispersed. The last piece had been sold and the night was coming to a close. Not necessarily leaving on a high note, but overall it was a fun night. The auctioneer guided people who purchased artwork to pay and find ways to carefully bring it home. The odd man stayed by the side lines to let everyone pass by. Better not draw any more attention, especially with the judgemental glances he was getting. 

Once everyone paid for their things and the artists began bidding their goodbyes with their pieces, the man went over to collect his painting. That auctioneer was still around, watching over things and keeping a curious eye for the haunted painting. Such a timid man bought the damn thing. He was small, not just height wise, but he carried a demeanour that didn’t want to be seen. Hands that constantly fidgeted with his glasses, shoulders slumped to make his posture tinier, nervous expressions. God, this man was going to die by whatever demons plagued the Valley Girls.

“Can I get your name, sir?” a receptionist asked.

“Xander,” his voice was still as quiet as ever, “Collins… Xander Collins. Sorry…” He gave a shy smile. “Should I spell it out or…?” “That’s alright, mister Collins,” she reassured. “I think I got it. Enjoy your painting, if you can.” 

It was cheap enough that Xander could pay for it with cash. Looked like she, and many others, were rushing the process to get it out of here as soon as possible. Still, it was packaged nicely and the perfect size for him to carry himself. Now to give everyone a peace of mind and be on his way. 

“Excuse me.”

Xander flinched, looking back and seeing the auctioneer heading towards him. He gulped. “Yes…?”

“Sorry, just wanted to ask a couple questions. It’s scratching at my mind, I suppose,” he chuckled awkwardly. “I’ve never seen someone know the backstory of this thing and buy it. You one of those ghost hunters?”

Ah yes, the classic question. Xander was used to it, but he still fidgeted under the other’s gaze. “I guess I collect art like this… it’s a hobby of mine,” he explained. “I’m an exorcist.”

The auctioneer hummed in curiosity. “Oh~ So you’re gonna kill the ghost! I get it.”

“No-! Never!” Xander sputtered, before clearing his throat and looking down. “Sorry… I just- I don’t hurt the ghosts. Sorry.”

“What? Then what are you doing with them? Playing patty cake?”

Xander shook his head, frowning slightly. “I help them pass on… peacefully. They’re stuck here and helpless.” In a way, the spirits were humans still, and he certainly didn’t want to treat another human with malice. Not with how gently he held the painting against his chest. 

“Oh, I see. Kinda.” The auctioneer furrowed his brows and looked at Xander with a puzzled expression. “Well, you have fun with that, then. No refunds.” He turned on his heels, walking away quickly. 

Xander breathed a sigh of relief as he’s finally left alone. The trip to his car was easy after that. He placed the painting in the passenger's seat, not crazy enough to buckle it in like a person, thankfully. Though, the idea did make him giggle. 

The air was tense with the painting beside him, making a shiver crawl down his spine. Still, he didn’t falter. He was as confident as ever compared to how he acted in front of the others. “I’m glad I finally found you, Mary Ann,” he hummed in content. “That place was scary…” He gripped the steering wheel tightly, before taking a deep breath. 

The painting obviously didn’t speak back, but Xander didn’t expect anything. “Everything will be okay… hopefully.” With his research, it should be fine. Doubt was always a tricky problem, though. “I’ll do my best…”

Some may say Xander had a dangerous hobby. The art pieces he collected had very real stories of people getting hurt or traumatized, after all. However, he had his precautions. Be respectful. Be patient. Be helpful. No running away screaming for him, not with a job to do. 

Not many would praise the strange boy hunting for ghosts to save, but it was an interesting hobby. Every time a spirit felt at ease and passed on in Xander’s presence, he took pride. Ghosts were simply unfortunate souls that got stuck in a confusing situation. So, he doesn’t mind going the extra mile for their sake, even if he could only make a dent in his effort. One art auction at a time.

[365days365movies]

March 14, 2021: The Holy Mountain (1973) (Part One)

Happy Pi Day! What’s on the menu?

...Oh dear Christ. Looks like it’s a cloud pie, because this one’s gonna be OVER my head. And yes, I realize that it’s Pi Day after the irrational number, not the food. Which is ALSO fitting because I’m sure we’ve got a fuckton of irrationality coming my way, and I am...not ready? Yeah, yeah, I’m not ready.

But OK. Who actually made this movie? Alejandro Jodorowsky? Oh.

OH. This...I should’ve put this in goddamn Experimental June, huh? Well, shit. I ean, it fits in with the patter of films I’ve been watching recently. You know, Greek mythology, Japanese folklore, then a surrealist film released by a notable director? And Jodorowsky is notable...in film circles, anyway. He’s not exactly a household name, but he is very well-known regardless.

Alejandro Jodorowsky is a Chilean-French man best known for his Mexican films. So, yeah, already interesting there. His Wikipedia article describes him as such, right off the BAT.

Since 1948, Jodorowsky has worked as a novelist, screenwriter, a poet, a playwright, an essayist, a film and theater director and producer, an actor, a film editor, a comics writer, a musician and composer, a philosopher, a puppeteer, a mime, a lay psychologist, a draughtsman, a painter, a sculptor, and a spiritual guru.

Dude had a movie made ABOUT HIM TRYING TO MAKE A MOVIE. That would be Jodorowsky’s Dune, a documentary film about Jodorowsky’s attempt to make an adaptation of the book Dune, well before the actual first film came out. And people LOVED that film. The film about a filmmaker making a film...I am frightened.

And I’m not going to spoil it for you, but in looking for the GIFs of this movie...guys, I am FUCKED. I’m a boring-ass man, in that I’ve never so much as smoked a cigarette, and I have the feeling that I’m gonna feel high watching this movie. I am NOT ready. But OK, with that, let’s just get into it, huh? Let’s get this trip over with. SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

Recap (1/2)

Two women are staring at me. And so is a dude dressed all in black with a crazy hat, as chanting goes on in the background in a white room with black crosses on the walls, and we’re JUST JUMPING RIGHT THE FUCK IN, HUH?

The title comes up, dude just rips their clothes off, and YES THERE IS A GIF OF IT ON TUMBLR ALREADY, and I’m probably gonna flagged for that, BUT WHATEVER

He shaves their heads, they enter a warm embrace of sorts, AND THEN WE MOVE ON TO A POINTED EYEBALL SURROUNDED BY PEACOCK FEATHERS I AM COMPLETELY LOST

Well, actually, as the credits play, backed by a sound which I can only assume is the creaking of the opening gates of hell, there are a number of objects and artifacts, with peacock feathers seeming to be a common theme. And then...a man with the tarot card The Fool next to him pisses himself in the desert as flies cover his face, a cougar standing over him and roars, a bullfrog looks at some tarot cards, and a legless and handless man with the Five of Swords card strapped to his back comes to wake him up with the aid of several naked children, who tie him to a fake cross and throw stones at him.

ALL OF THIS HAPPENS IN ONE MINUTE, AND I DIDN’T EVEN MENTION THE FLOWER GROWING STABBED INTO HIS PALM

Somehow...I underestimated this movie. I DIDN’T THINK IT’D BE THIS CRAZY THIS QUICKLY. Well, after...THAT, the two men share a cigarette and hug as the Swords guy licks his forehead, and they walk into the city. There, we see some grizzly ass shit. There’s a truck carrying the bodies of killed native people, a firing squad shoots some kids who...bleed black, and a fuck-ton of sheep who’ve been skinned and fake-crucified are marched down the street as a bunch of rich people watch on. Also, another firing squad shoots at some kids, and birds fly out of them.

I think the people watching are tourists, and this...might be fake? One of the fake soldiers takes one of the tourists aside, and just...starts fuckin’ ‘er. In front of her husband, as people take pictures of the whole thing. I...I am more confused than I have EVER been.

By the way, I don’t know ANY names for this yet, so I’ll add them...whenever I figure it out. Our pair apparently entertain these tourists, and make money doing so. They work with a circus called “The Great Toad and Chameleon Circus”, who perform a pantomime of the conquest of Mexico, using...costumed toads and horned lizard. And it’s...I mean, it’s definitely bad for those animals, but it’s also kind of adorable?

The horned lizards represent the Aztec, while the toads represent the Spanish. And, uh...yeah, it’s literally exactly what I said. The Spanish toads go after the Aztec horned toads, and overwhelm the fake Tenochtitlan with their sheer numbers. What’s weird about that? WHAT IS SO WEIRD ABOUT THAT TO YOU?

There’s also a lot of...what I’m assuming to be fake blood, but with this movie, I worry. The whole dead sheep thing has me concerned AND THEN THEY BLOW UP THE SET AND KILL THEM ALL WHAT THE FUCK MAN? How did this film escape animal cruelty shit?

And then...look, you’re gonna have to get used to weird-ass shit happening here, OK? And for the record, I’m desperately trying to weave some symbolism out of things here. Like, this is clearly a criticism of tourism and wealthy cultures taking advantage of the disadvantages. It also seems to be anti-religious, although...I’m not sure if I can articulate that one yet. Still, this part of the film seems to be about the disadvantaged native people being used as essentially objects by the rich foreigners. I mean, they just used the Spanish Conquest of Mexico, for God’s sakes. It’s a new form of conquest, but modernized.

Right? OK, OK, maybe I can do this after all. What’s next? 

A bunch of overweight dudes dressed up as Roman soldiers, alongside a guy dressed as a nun, are selling crosses and Catholic materials to the tourists, while the Fool and Swords pretend to be Jesus Christ for them. This eventually leads to them goading the Fool into a drunken stupor, then making a plaster mold of him before leaving him on a pile of potatoes. Eventually, he wakes up and screams, surrounded by hundreds of casts of him painted as Jesus Christ, as the Roman soldiers and the nun dude sleep.

Angered at his own commercialization, Fool whips the nun and soldiers, and destroys all of the Jesus statues. Meanwhile, a group of women - of different races and ages - and a chimpanzee stare at a gilded statue of Jesus in a church.

Sure. Why not? WHY NOT?

 Also, they’re prostitutes, and one of them is, like, a child. Fuck. Said child is approached by an elderly man, who giver her his fake eye, than proceeds to kiss her hand...A LOT. OK, I know there’s something to be gleaned from that. Said prostitutes meet the Fool, who’s carrying the Jesus cast. Most of the laugh at him, except for the one carrying the chimpanzee, which I’m assuming is a Mary Magdalene reference.

She follows him, and the other prostitutes follow her, but they all stop when they come across a group of civilians dancing with soldiers. The Fool walks through this crows alone, and ends up in a dilapidated church, where he finds an owl and a priest, who’s sleeping with another Jesus statue. Angry that the Fool’s brought in his own statue, he kicks him out. The Fool then eats the face of his statue, then takes it back to the children from earlier, ties a bunch of balloons to it, and lets it fly above the city, the kids, and the prostitutes.

I, uh...I don’t know. I DO NOT KNOW.

From there, the Fool goes into town, there a red tower stands in the square. Maui’s hook descends from the top, and the Fool climbs onto it. The hook takes him up, as “Mary Magdalene” watches on. And it goes up VERY HIGH, by the way. GODDAMN. He gets into a hole at the top of the tower, where he finds a white shroud, which he bursts through, only to find...

I’m so tired. I am SO TIRED, you guys. Our guy heads down the rainbow toward the camel, the naked woman, and the man surrounded by two goats, who I think is the guy from the beginning. He’s wearing the same hat, anyway.

He slowly and measuredly moves off his throne, as the music in the background intensifies, and as the camel is fidgeting, seemingly ALSO trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. The man gets into a brief fight with the Fool, but stops him by touching his chakras. With the help of the woman, he slices open a tumor on the back of the Fool’s neck, and extracts an octopus from it. Yeah. YEAH. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS MOVIE

The man offers him gold, in the FIRST UNDERSTANDABLE SPOKEN WORDS IN THE MOVIE I AM NOT KIDDING

They take the man to a pool, complete with baby hippo (what, do you not have your hippo in your personal pool, like a goddamn loser?), and the man gets cleaned, VERY thoroughly. Yeah, we see it.

In another room, with a pelican in it this time, the man has the Fool defecate in a jar, and also puts him in a container, where he sweats a lot. The guy collects his sweat in a hear-shaped jar, and continues his chemical reaction with the dude’s feces. It’s at this point where I think it’s appropriate to give the name of the man in the tower: The Alchemist (Alejandro Jodorowsky). Yeah. It’s the director. Take THAT, Hitchcock.

After literally turning his shit into gold, the Alchemist says that the Fool can do the same to himself, as he is shit. Yeah, he says that. And then, the two meet in a room of mirrors, where the Alchemist is now wearing a black outfit, and the Fool is wearing a matching brown one. They break a stone, in which we are told that each stone has a soul.

And then...tarot.

Yeah, that seems to be a theme, huh? According to the Alchemist, Tarot will teach the Fool to create a soul. I get the feeling that it’s meant to be within himself, but...I don’t know. Also, the tarot cars that we see are definitely supposed to represent previous scenes in the film, some of which we’ve already seen. However...they’re still pretty goddamn weird.

He gives him a few items, then brings in an ox and a turkey vulture. Goddamn, dude owns a zoo, huh? He uses the two to speak on the cyclical nature of life and death, and how organisms depend upon each other. This leads to yet another room, with a peacock in it this time, where he notes that the fish never seeks the fisherman, meaning that the master seeks a disciple.

In this final room, there are statues of people who are like him, and who will be needed for the coming journey, whatever that may be. They are industrialists and politicians, and each represents a planet...and maybe something else. They are, in order:

Fon (Juan Ferrara): Our Venus, and a bedding and clothing business magnate. He has many wives, who begin as workers in his factory, then are promoted to his “secretaries. He also has a fuckton of children as a result. His father began the factory, and is deaf, dumb, and blind. He makes all decisions by consulting his wife’s corpse’s vagina. Yup. Dear Lord. The company’s also made masks that have the texture, warmth, and smell of living human beings, allowing anybody to change their face to something more desirable. They also beautify corpses, and animates them after death. Fuck.

Isla (Adriana Page): Our Mars, Isla is first seen in a coffin-like bed, sleeping with the two bald women from earlier. After putting on her Prince suit, she wakes up her captive population of male secretaries, and her flock of black swans, and goes to her day job: manufacture and sale of weapons. We’re talking nuclear, biological, and fictional. They experiment with drugs that have various effects, and demonstrates them on many people, and make such unique things as psychadelic guns and grenades, and themed weapons for the religious crowds.

Klen (Burt Kleiner): Klen’s our Jupiter, and his house is huge, his wife is cold and unloving, and his chaffeur feeds him coke in the back of his black limo. He has a mistress that he fucks in the back of the limo, on the way to his art factory, where they produce a “new line” of art every season, using girls’ asses, and various other parts of bodies. He LITERALLY objectifies people. He also created a “love machine”, which is literally a robot box with a robot vagina that you fuck with a giant blue artificial penis. It is a...weird but interesting scene.

Sel (Valerie Jodorowsky): Sel’s a clown, who represents Saturn, and performs for children. Which makes sense, seeing that she’s a clown. She has a toy factory as well, where she sheds her harlequinesque vestments for a far harsher, stricter persona. Her toy factory is for war toys, and all of the staff and workers are elderly. Using a computer, they use their resources specifically to corrupt the minds of children to feed their political agendas, conditioning them to hate whichever enemy the government will face in the future, literally sowing prejudice and racism into their minds in preparation for a future war. Eerie.

Berg (Nicky Nichols): Uranus next! And Uranus is...EXTREMELY weird. Like, you know how you shouldn’t kink-shame people? That does not apply to Berg, both because he probably SHOULD be kink-shamed, and also because I don’t think it’s possible for him to feel shame? This entire section begins...real weird. Berg and his wife (Lupita Peruyero) are a very eclectic and unusual couple, but they aren’t as bad as the rest...I think? I mean, she’s literally knitting a sweater for their giant pet snake, and it’s kind of adorable. And then...we discover that Berg is a financial adviser to the president of a very wealthy country. He recommends that, in order to save the economy of the country, they kill 4 million people. THe president then activates the country’s gas chambers, gas schools, gas universities, gas libraries, gas museums, gas dance halls, and gas whore houses. Not a joke, that is actually what he says. And that’s...kind of hilarious? That segment ends with a picnic, and Berg says he hates his wife while surrounded by many very beefy bois. OK. My favorite so far, and that’s not even an exaggeration.

Axon (Richard Rutowsky): Besides having a HELL of a name, Axon’s the Neptune of this Solar System. He’s a chief of police. Which involves...a naked man chained to a table as many people chant and play drums. And then, Axon comes in with a GIGANT GUN, while bedecked in clothes made and worn by the forbidden love child of Mad Max and Roman soldiers. The ceremony is actually a castration, and it’s Axon’s 1000th castration. Axon commands many eunuchs, all of whom are trained to believe in him. It’s very...cultish. And that’s made worse when a group of protestors are attacked by Axon’s police force. They execute them, with the murder represented by interesting symbolism. Like, instead of blood and guts, it’s fruit and birds, and...also the thing above, which is funny only out of context. It’s also eerie.

Finally, Lut (Luis Lomeli): Lut is an architect, and our Pluto. In his house, there is a bevy of children dressed up as mice, who are playing hide-and-seek with him. Lut built a multi-family complex, but begrudges that they lost money in doing so. And so, to save money, he decides on a new concept for homes: basically just a box that people sleep in. Nothing else. He presents this at a party, where he unveils the house, which is essentially a coffin. He uses a sex show and women to sell it to the overindulgent rich. There’s also a well-sculpted ice penis involved, which must have been an interesting job to get for the guy who made that. Anyway, yeah, he’s trying to turn homes into coffins.

Jesus. That’s a good place to stop now, I think. See you in Part Two, goddamn.

[ofcloudsandstars]

Amber and orchard for the fall asks!

amber - share an unpopular opinion that you may have.

Hahaha this is like cracking open pandora’s box. I feel like I have too many. 

I think my primary one though is I absolutely despise capitalism’s affect on witchcraft. I DO NOT think it’s made it more accessible for people, I feel like the only very minor positive thing is that you can now tell people you are a witch and into tarot cards and they won’t find you as weird anymore. Otherwise people don’t realize how capitalism is a force that actually strips culture of it’s meaning in order to sell it for profit and it’s affects on this practice has left a lot of damage not just to some aspects that are sacred but towards the earth since it’s a practice that works really closely with nature. 

(added a read more to spare you poor scrolling souls from my rant lol)

Anyway what crapitalism does is it takes a culture and turns it into an easily consumable concept- almost like a brand, so that as long as you slap something ‘witchy’ seeming together then it qualifies as that brand. It boils everything down to an aesthetic. And no one has to actually believe in it anymore, or practice it or make any effort towards learning it or incorporating it into their lives. As long as they buy into the brand or embody the aesthetic then they count. Sometimes you can try to express that some traditions and materials and such do have meaning (I mean of course they do no one just sat around and made this shit up) people kind of have this nihilistic view that’s fed from this weird modern capitalist society that like: nothing truly has meaning anymore. But it’s like they are feeding this consumerist culture by repeating this mindset and gaslighting others when they appropriate magical practices or other cultures that are still very much alive and still tended to (often by indigenous people still being prosecuted) that are focused on working with the earth. 

Then you see this ripple effect on places like instagram or the big mainstream like magazines and shit and do not get me wrong cause there are a lot of cool and creative people that practice this that are on there but there is so much cashing into this field now and oversaturation that comes with seedy and shady background stories that show creators being completely disingenuous because they really just want to make money. And then going back to my point that this practice works closely with nature, capitalism exploited the fact that we like working with certain herbs, woods, crystals etc and is overharvesting and mining and tainting the very tools that we want to work with, with greed, pollution, child slavery etc. And it’s irritating cause you can make your own tools and don’t have to import anything and you can tell everyone how bad some industries are but they don’t listen cause they are buying into capitalism’s lie that they can sell you anything at a price, even if it’s sacred. Then if you try to defend your point they tell you that this is the only way it can be accessible to everyone, but it’s NOT accessible to everyone, it strips it away from people that could be working with these tools for generations and protecting the climates that these guides and resources for the tools grow in. It also disempowers people in their craft to begin with because witchcraft is about finding that connection to your own power and magic and the bridge with the universe’s power and magic and when you venture down into this practice you will find tools and guides local to you and find ways to make your own magical tools but capitalism disempowers us by telling us that we are not legit until we can put a price tag on it. So people don’t believe in their ability to find the sacred in themselves or nature, they just keep consuming whatever herb bundle or tool capitalism spits at them because it’s the only way to feel legit in this culture. 

And then since it’s seen more of a title or aesthetic and less of a way of life or set of ethics or practice, you have people interested in this spiritual or witchy community that don’t do any work or want to work on themselves that bring their shadow baggage into it. So you get racism seeping into it, homophobia, I also am so fucking confused how TRANSPHOBIA has made its way into here like transfolx are magical by just existing they are walking manifestations and works of alchemy like wtf; and like if you guys were friends with any queer people and hung out with them, they get the idea of magic, ritual and manifestation so well cause so much of their daily life already embodies some of that. But that’s a whole other topic. I vibed well with my queer friends on this and they were the only ones I could talk to about it before witchcraft became mainstream. 

 Then in general it’s seen as like radical if you tell people that are supposedly practicing witches that our energies should be focusing on restoring balance and we should put our energy towards healing nature or towards human rights (since humans are apart of nature) you will literally have witches being like: don’t tell me what to do!!! Like!! Gurl wtf lmaoo I don’t know how people claim to be empaths or into this but they don’t see that maybe if there was a so called “Great Awakening” to “Empower Ourselves” that’s probably what the fucking point was? Not to say that you need to spend every waking moment protesting (another contribution of capitalism- showing some kind of documented proof on social media that you stand for something instead of little daily actions embedded into your everyday life) but you can find ways to change your daily patterns to make space for the societal change that’s coming to bring in a more compassionate world and better community. But since we are so indoctrinated in this consumerist culture, so many people don’t know how to incorporate their values into their everyday lives anymore. It’s all about quantity and showing off on social media. And that negatively impacts witchcraft cause witchcraft is a daily practice you do little things for everyday that just gets embedded into your everyday life, but people get confused and think to be legit it’s something you gotta buy into or show off as proof with stylistic rituals and of course for many people that’s exhausting or financially inaccessible. 

And for the sake of clarity cause the internet hates using critical thinking sometimes, of COURSE you can have a fun and flashy craft I’m not saying you can’t, but there is a massive imbalance here I am pointing out with how people are developing insecurities because they cannot attain this aesthetic overnight without dropping a shit ton of money. Yes witchcraft is very aesthetic-heavy but that’s because it’s a really creative practice that people pour their creativity and energy into and capitalism saw a way to put a price tag on it and now it’s confusing everyone else that’s mistaking this as something else to consume in exchange for money. 

And then I hate that I feel often I cannot talk about this cause instead of people using their critical thinking braincells and realizing how bad capitalism is, they somehow turn this conversation into thinking that I just don’t like when a culture becomes mainstream cause not everyone should enjoy a culture or whatever and it’s like fucking hell of course I would LOVE more witches and to have more people into celebrating nature or finding their own magic and connecting to the universe and whatever, but capitalism isn’t helping at all. It’s separating us from it’s connection and the meaning behind it’s practice. (Also one day I dream of living in a witchy town or community so yeah, the more the merrier, but right now with capitalism, this method is not the way to get into this practice lol). 

You really see the negative effects of capitalism marketing witchcraft because people now treat it as like this commodity they can jump into without finding a way to genuinely connect with it cause it’s all just a gimmick until the next zeitgeist. This either manifests in two ways where they think they can just buy a book or read some posts and not do any work on themselves or thinking on stuff like cultural appropriation so when they start experimenting they might bring harm to themselves by evoking spirits that do not want to work with them, or taking in some sacred herb or substance that can fuck them up leaving deep psychological damage or death- or they can harm others in a myriad of ways. 

Then the other way it manifests are people feeling like witchcraft is suddenly inaccessible because you need money to practice it because capitalism put that veil over their eyes. It’s now another thing gatekept by money. So they try to reclaim it by being like: it’s just a title you can slap on yourself; but they give capitalism more power because that’s what capitalism was doing all along by stripping the meaning. Stripping it down to a concept that only matters as a label that evokes a brand or idea but not an actual practice. In a way it’s very counter culture to not buy into the aesthetic or put in effort anymore. Even if you want to put in effort you feel like you are not good enough cause you will never fit capitalism’s standards of quantity and money to spend to showcase it on the internet to feel legit. So people develop this no-effort approach to it. And ONCE AGAIN for clarity for the internet’s lack of critical thinking and jumping to conclusions I am NOT referring to anything like spoony witchcraft or energy based witchcraft (I am an energy witch primarily thank you very much) I am talking about people calling themselves witches but then when you want to sit down and chat about the craft they have a blank stare cause they were never serious and sometimes judge you for how much you cared about it cause they don’t really believe in it anyway. Not even cause it’s woowoo it’s cause capitalism doesn’t make you believe any anything anymore. The only thing it wants you to believe in is money and what you can consume with it.  

And then when people online try to talk about this and point out it’s a practice these guys get angry with you like you are gatekeeping but it’s like BITCH it’s a FREE FUCKING PRACTICE like GO TALK TO A TREE go COLLECT A ROCK YOU FOUND IN THE CLEAR STREAM OF A BABBLING BROOK and maybe you’d CALM THE FUCK DOWN. Capitalism making it seem like you gotta buy all this shit to be seen as legit is not what this practice is about and it makes me upset how there is like this massive group of people that want to access this culture but are so lethargic about actually doing anything because they are disenchanted and it’s really because they are mentally bogged down by capitalism’s grip on it making them feel like they aren’t shit cause they can’t afford all that bullshit that ain’t gonna help them anyway so they just call themselves witches to get them 2 drops of serotonin and feel included but never really go anywhere beyond that cause capitalism strips the fucking joy and meaning out of everything. The only reason why this bothers me is cause I could be staying in my lane drinking my herbs and shit and chilling but then people either judge me for the effort I put into my practice’s aesthetics thinking I am shallow and buying into this or they think I am being reckless and dangerous believing in something not real by practicing a craft that tbh has a lot of dangerous aspects to it so it’s not rated E for everyone. Like you can fit it to what you want it to be since it’s your journey but it’s always been a bit edgy in some ways and it’s annoying when you get people judging you now for your lifestyle or they wonder why you are so invested cause they don’t get it. 

Anyway that was a rant but you asked for it lol. 

orchard - share one thing that you’d like to happen this autumn.

Get some more weed 

Thanks for the asks lol. Kept the last one short haha but it’s true I have been trying to manifest for a while after my quarantine rations went out. Here are the autumnal asks if anyone else wants to ask or reblog them!

[gayenerd]

Green Day Deals with the "Rock Star" Dookie 

by Tom Lanham 

(First appeared in BAM Magazine, March 10, 1995)

 Young, loud, and snotty equals beaucoup bucks? What pencil-pushing, graph-charting trend spotter could've predicted it? But the facts speak for themselves: As of late February, Dookie--the brattish, snap 'n' snarl Reprise salvo from Berkeley's sloppy punk trio, Green Day--has sold six million copies. Six million. Chances are, somebody on your block is jumping up and down in his living room at this very moment to the scrap-metal power chords and ardent apathy of "Longview," "Burnout," "Basket Case," or "When I Come Around" and getting lost in the teen abandon of these testy 22-year-olds--weasel-voiced, Montgomery-Clift-like charismatic singer/guitarist Billie Joe; tom-tom tribal percussionist Tre Cool (of the ever-morphing hair-color fame); and bassist Mike Dirnt (who survived Green Day's appearance at Woodstock '94, although several of his teeth did not). 

Yes, punk rock is a marketable phenomenon these days, leaving many involved with the music's initial late-'70s, early-'80s wave scratching their heads, wondering why it didn't take the first time around. Public reaction started as curiosity ("Hey, honey, c'mere and lookit these goofy, green-haired little whippersnappers in an insane asylum on MTV!"), but spiraled up to rock-diet necessity (Green Day just won Grammy and they're nominated for quite a few Bammies as well, including such categories as Outstanding Group, Outstanding Album, and Outstanding Song--"Longview" and "Basket Case"). The fact that they've been nominated at all probably sends a shiver up the old dinosaur backbones of Eddie Money, Huey Lewis, and Boz Scaggs, a time-creepy feeling of "Gee, what the hell do we do now?" Because this isn't just some flash-in-the-pan punk movement, folks--this is a youth movement; Green Day are, as they hiply term it, "bored in the 'burbs," and reaching out, through TV and radio, like some prodigal preachers to other American kids who sense the same slacker ennui. Obviously, we're talking truckloads of kids. 

Ironically, the more fame edges into the Green Day ruffians' lives, the more mature they seem to become. They've turned down all interview requests as of late, even People magazine, preferring to lay low until this tide of interest recedes. Billie Joe got married last autumn, and spent his honeymoon--not in any exotic, expensive locale--but in Berkeley's grand old Claremont Hotel. Cool recently became a father, and Billie Joe's child is due any day now. It's a responsibility they've both eagerly undertaken. Rob Cavallo, the boys' coproducer and A&R man at Reprise, swears they're "old souls, the smartest young kids I've ever met." It rings true. 

The first time I spoke with Green Day, in January of '94, Cool, Dirnt, and Billie Joe were lazing around their dingy basement apartment in Berkeley, sitting on chairs and couches with potentially painful springs poking through. Rock 'n' roll bubblegum cards were scattered across a coffee table, along with several bongs of various sizes, plus a four-and-a-half foot red plastic pipe dubbed "Bongzilla" leaned against a doorway. The only wall decoration, besides a Ren & Stimpy poster, was a Twister game mat nailed up in its entirety, presumably for high-schoolish humor's sake. 

When I'd met Billie Joe a few months earlier at a campus concert, his hair was dyed lime-green and featured squidlike tufts. Now it was dark brown, with only two tufts remaining, and both his ears and nose had piercings. Periodically during the interview, he'd ram a finger into that pierced nostril, rummage around, then stare idly at the resultant booger before flicking it on to the carpet. Cool wandered out of the rec room for several minutes, but returned, red-eyed, to proudly proclaim, "Lookit me! I'm stoned, dude!" Dirnt--when he wasn't strumming an acoustic guitar--kept watching their windowsill Sea Monkey tank, finally noting, "Hey, these Sea Monkeys look just like sperm!" 

Despite all these schoolboy, poo-poo wit trappings (dookie, after all, is kiddie slang for excrement), there was a sense of seasoned wisdom about them, a feeling that they were, as Cavallo postulated, truly old souls. Like the class clown who frustrates all of his teachers by also maintaining a 4.0 grade average, Green Day can afford to play because their work--brilliantly skewed three-minute pop songs, delivered with such vehemence and vitriol you don't dare doubt them--certainly speaks for itself. But, sooner or later, of course, the band has to speak for itself, too, so what follows is a set of excerpts from that first ratty-digs meeting, as well as a later chat with Billie Joe, sans sidekicks. How did Green Day take over the rock world in less than a year? That's the six-million-copy question, and hopefully we'll provide a few answers. 

* * * 

So punk is back, whether America likes it or not? 

BILLIE JOE: It's always been around, and everyone has their own interpretation of it. It's weird to actually call it "punk" again, when it's been there all the time. 

MIKE DIRNT: It's been springing up in little suburban areas, where people grab it and express themselves. 

TRE COOL: It's people who make a point of setting aside all responsibilities and just playing music. And doing fat joint after fat joint--you have to let go of things like paying rent, going to school, having a job. 

BJ: And, if you can't tell by my house, we don't have a very high standard of living. 

How does today's punk rock differ from its late-'70s cousin?

 BJ: I think it was all about art and fashion back then, really, because everyone who was a punk in England was in art school. I read an early interview with Dee Dee Ramone, where he said he wished the Ramones had more of a glamorous appeal, too, instead of playing in jeans and leather jackets. But it was definitely about fashion, until the Clash really brought out the political side. Our music came from being bored in the 'burbs. You get put in this high school situation, where you're learning someone else's rules in a room with 30 other people that you don't really like. There's nothing interesting about it whatsoever, so you pick up a guitar instead. 

But you all tried college, at least for awhile, right? 

MD: And then we started touring. Constantly. 

TC: So most of our reading now comes from highway signs. 

MD: It's the old grasshopper and the ant story. The thought of actually working is just so... 

TC: Sickening! 

MD: Yeah. So we put everything we had into not working. This is what I do best, and I was always told, "If you're gonna do something, do it the best you can." So why not do the best thing you can, too? 

You guys--at least Mike and Billie Joe--have known each other since you were 10? 

BJ: And the first conversation we ever had was about writing songs. And then we just started playing music. 

A lot of the stuff on your early Lookout! records shows what was on your mind at the time--namely, girls. 

BJ: That was pretty much the viewpoint of a 16-year-old kid. I don't write stuff like that anymore. The new songs are more about coming of age and being apathetic and neurotic.

 Where were your parents when you were touring [at age 16]? 

MD: At work, doing their own thing. 

BJ: My mom's worked a waitress job for like the past 40 years or something, and whatever I was doing was OK with her. 

MD: I moved out when I was 15, and I worked all the way through high school. 

BJ: And me, I've never held a job longer than two weeks. I tried to flip pizzas--it didn't work. I tried cleaning toilets in the Red Onion in El Sobrante. Me and TrŽ, we used to work for the SF Chronicle, selling papers. I sold three the first day, and the next day we just smoked pot, and we smoked pot the next day after that. So we had hella extra papers lying around. Our ultimate goal wasn't to get rich or famous or anything like that. It was to not have a regular job and not be miserable. 

MD: And I've lived in every city around here, except for Albany. Literally. And one thing we want to establish about ourselves is that we're just a bunch of geeks from the suburbs. 

Well, one of the first times I saw you, you guys were closing your set with Survivor's "Eye of the Tiger." That's pretty geeky. 

MD: I grew up on radio--that's all I had. When I was a little kid, I couldn't afford records. I'll tell you, I've been down to a dollar in my pocket a lot of times. I've even lived in my truck. I can remember shooting rats with a BB gun in the flat we used to live in, before they'd make it to our food. 

BJ: I've always been really good about saving. If I got some money, I'd put it away instead of spending it, and I'd buy ramen. 

Why name your disc Dookie? 

TC: Warner's said we could do anything we want, as long as we didn't say "Cop Killer." 

BJ: Somebody told our manager that the ad for it was the most tasteless thing they'd ever seen in Billboard magazine. 

What exactly do you mean on Dookie by "Welcome to Paradise"? 

BJ, MD, TC [in unison]: West Oakland! 

MD: Living in West Oakland, and going out to parties every night. 

So it cost, what, around $100,000 to make Dookie? 

MD: Yeah. We kept the advances low, because you gotta pay all that shit back. Everyone knows you can't become an instant millionaire just by signing, because there are so many people that want a piece of you. 

BJ: We hang out with mostly punks though, and they don't want anything we have. They could care less. And a lot of our friends don't even agree with us being on a major label. 

Is Green Day angry? 

BJ: No, I'm not angry, like, walking around all the time with a frown on my face. But the way my music is interpreted is very angry. 

MD: When you feel really strongly about something, you want to let it out in the most powerful way possible. 

Like the way you baited your old high school principal from the Warfield stage recently? 

MD: I think he was an asshole. He treated me with no respect. And for high school initiation, we got our heads shaved--that's the kind of small-town shit we had to deal with! Sometimes they made you push a penny up the street with your nose. But that's life, and anywhere you go, you're gonna hate a lot of shit in your life. You'll be handed

Dookie? 

MD: Yeah. Yeah, you'll be handed dookie through all parts of your life. And see, what you need to do is just deal with the dookie, build upon what you have, and make something out of the dookie, you know? Like an adobe dookie building! 

* * * 

Several months later, and Dookie is oozing its gooey way into the public consciousness big time. The fading summer heat sticks crackling to the Berkeley sidewalks as punks--many sporting monstrous green or fuchsia mohawks--zing by on skateboards by day, and huddle in Telegraph Avenue doorways by night, conserving feral body heat the whole time. It feels like another world here, a throwback to the Bay Area's DIY/hardcore scene of the early '80s, when squatters reigned supreme and burlesque Broadway--fueled by all-ages shows at the Mabuhay Gardens, On Broadway, and even an occasional GBH or UK Subs booking at the Stone--made weekend conversions to "Punk Playground, USA." It was the best of times; it was the worst of times--despite relentless touring, most of these bands sold bupkus in the way of records, and few, save Metallica, ever held pen in shaky hand over a major-label contract. 

Billie Joe saunters into the Berkeley coffeehouse in rumpled jeans and a grease-spattered flannel shirt; his once-green-and-tufty tresses have grown out into Wally Cleaver waves and been dyed a Rod Stewarty blond. He looks like one of those feisty punks of yore; like he could hold his own through sheer physical endurance in the wildest of thrash pits. There's a new authority about him, the way he strides confidently to the counter, orders a pint-size glass of coffee, then swims through a sea of late-lunching yuppies to grab a table. The singer doesn't seem to notice them at all. Or maybe he's just too tired from nonstop touring to really give a shit. He smiles a goofy grin, revealing a set of generally crooked or chipped choppers, with an entire half of one front tooth missing. But there's such charisma behind it, the same kind of "Who, me?" innocence that little kids use. Billie Joe, you might say, has quickly become the Bart Simpson of the alternative set. 

How else could you explain his uncensored performance at a certain outdoor arena where--in a hyperspeed set lasting only 30 minutes before management threatened to pull the plug--he a) unzipped his fly and paraded his privates around for all to see; b) handed a stunned fan his beat-up, sticker-plastered guitar and urged him to play it; c) destroyed a $600 microphone by smashing it into the stage, then destroyed a second mike he was handed as well; and d) encouraged half the venue to chant, "Rock 'n' roll!" and the other half to respond with, "Shut the fuck up!" He then closed the show with a proposition--"They'll be really angry with us, but what we could do is rip out the seats!" he told the audience, which promptly gave Green Day a standing ovation. Billie Joe not only shrugs off such shenanigans as artistic license, he gets away with them! He's even encouraged to continue by fans who empathize with his uppity "fuck authority" attitude. 

But the facts were all on the table as Billie Joe sipped his house blend that afternoon, and it didn't take a fortune teller to read 'em. Green Day was hitting big time. Fast. And the sheer enormity of the undertaking, the weight of all its accordant responsibility, was just beginning to hit him. He looked older, wiser, and spoke in more grownup tones about his future, which then included a pending marriage to longtime girlfriend Adrienne. You could practically feel this new maturity encircling him like some protective aura. 

* * * 

=Where do all these punks on Telegraph come from? They can't all be local and homeless. 

I think Telegraph has just become this cultural mecca for punk rockers, because most of 'em who are on the Avenue aren't even from here. They're from Arizona, Minneapolis, New York, Florida. They just come out and end up squatting in houses in Berkeley. Why here? It's the climate, and the scene itself--Gilman Street and Maximum Rock 'n' Roll are in this area, and have a link to each other. But at the same time, it's separated, because there are so many different factions of punk now. There are the squatters, the pop-cores, the mods, the crusties. And all these types of people come out just to check it out. Plus, there's the best coffee in Berkeley, and a lot of 'em are real super coffee-drinkers, just pounding cup after cup all the time. It's pretty rare to come across a punk who doesn't drink coffee. I can't drink too much coffee myself--it gives me the shakes at night, so I just have a little bit during the day. Then I can smoke dope and go to bed. 

=What's the attraction in squatting or homelessness for these kids? 

For a lot of 'em, it's the first sense of freedom that they've had. It's like, "You mean I don't have to be home by midnight?" They've pretty much told their families and schools to go fuck themselves, so they go off and do their own thing. When I was 17, I did the same thing. And I had this total sense of freedom, where no one's telling you what to do, you don't have a clock to punch in on, you don't have people breathing down your neck; you don't have any deadlines to meet. You have this endless schedule where you can stay up all night drinking with your friends, or do anything you want. 

=But isn't "Coming Clean" about leaving behind your wilder ways? 

It's also about coming to grips with your sexuality. There's one line, "Skeletons come to life in my closet." And it's like, "Am I homosexual or heterosexual?" You go through this adolescent stage in your life where you don't really know what you are, and one side is taboo because your parents brought you up to think being gay was wrong. And if you come to grips with yourself, that you happen to be gay or bi or whatever, well, that was one thing about punk that was so accepting--all creeds were welcome, all sexualities, everything. 

=Was this something you went through personally? 

Yeah, to a certain extent. But I don't want to go around waving a gay flag or anything. 

=Well, you had a beautiful girl on your arm backstage at the last Green Day show. 

That's Adrienne. She's cool. Actually, we're engaged. That's why it took me so long getting here today--I had to get this! [Rolls sleeve up on tattooed arm, points to a bandaged-on cotton swab] Blood test, dude! We're getting married next week! 

=Has anybody tried to tell you you're too young for such a serious move? 

Of course. There are a lot of people who've said stuff. My parents have been a little more understanding than her parents. I just called my mom yesterday and said, "Mom, I'm gettin' married," and she said, "That's fine, son. Have fun!" I can hardly surprise my mother nowadays. But [this relationship] has been a recurring thing for the past four years, and we just decided to get serious about it. She's coming out here, and we're moving in together, so it's like, "Why not?" I don't really have any wild oats to sow, or anything like that. I'm not into the "Gettin' chicks all the time" thing.

 =I know a lot of girls who'll be really bummed that you're gittin' hitched. They all seem to have developed a crush on you... 

Me?! It must be the teeth [grins again].

 =OK, so maybe you didn't brush often enough when you were young. But you were busy developing a direction... 

I wouldn't necessarily say I had a direction or anything. I just knew I wanted to write songs. It comes from...uh...I don't know. I have no idea. It wasn't any kind of cosmic force or anything like that; it was just a matter of having a guitar around and wanting to play it all the time. I've had the same guitar since I was 11--I bought it off this guy at a guitar store. And I still play it--you know, the blue one with stickers all over it? That's my blue guitar, and, for some reason, things come to life, and everyone calls it "Blue" now--"Where's Blue? Can I pick up Blue and play it?" 

=And you let just anybody touch it? 

Oh yeah! Blue's not prejudiced. 

=It's interesting to note that the general public seems to think Dookie is your debut. 

Yeah, but that's just the general public. There are people who've been with us since the beginning, who know how long we've been around, since our first 7-inch came out back in '89. 

=And now you can afford to trash pricey microphones. 

Actually, Warner Brothers paid for those. It was pretty nice of 'em. They looked really nice--I remember looking at 'em and thinking, "Nice microphones!" They gave me one mike and I took it and threw it down, and they gave me another, and at the end of the set I creamed it pretty hard, I guess. We toured Europe with this band Die Toten Hosen--we played nine dates with 'em--and we got charged for a microphone every night. I dunno, for some reason we just started smashing shit. We'd start throwing equipment around at the end of each set, and these kids would start grabbing Tre's drum set and throwing it, and then they started smashing the microphones too. And the bouncers just couldn't do anything about it. 

=And you actually yanked your dick out onstage too? 

I did. Totally. It was the real thing. I dunno. The bands that we were playing with were just boring. It was more like making a mockery of the whole thing. The big arena rock thing is just so dated now, like Journey or Queen. Which is why I think punk rock started to begin with--it was this reaction to all the dinosaur bands. So for me, that show was, "How can we make a complete mockery of this but at the same time have fun with it?" I like to leave people guessing, "Did he hate that or did he like that?" It's not that I don't care--it's more that I'm careless. I try to be as happy-go-lucky as I can, but you can become apathetic at the same time. 

=Do you feel like Green Day is a part of, or represents, the so-called "slacker generation"? 

There's one side of me that doesn't mind it, because it's a generational thing, and another side of me that says, "Fuck that!" The reason I wrote the songs is, I ended up going back to Rodeo, where I'm from, for a week. And then I said, "Fuck it," and left. But I managed to get several good songs out of it. A lot of my friends had just turned into complete burnouts. And these are kids I've known since kindergarten, because it's a small town and you know everybody. And it was all fixing cars, staying up all night on methamphetamines, smoking dope, and finding out all these rumors about people I haven't heard of in 10 years. Like, "Oh, did you hear about so-and-so, who got married, had three kids, and ended up shooting everybody in his family?" And it happened! It was a true story! You're there for one week, and you get caught up in it. You get so bored, all you wanna do is watch television. And there are no record stores, nothing around, so you end up hanging out with all these delinquents who aren't punkers at all, just cultural idiots. So I was watching all these people rot and rotting with them until I realized, "Shit! I gotta get the fuck outta here!" 

=As they say, you can never go home again. 

Oh yeah, definitely. Unless you get pregnant, like my sister did. Then you have to go. But I quit school my senior year--I just wasn't getting anything out of it. I was taking nine periods a day, plus night classes, which left me no time to smoke dope whatsoever. And my mom even suggested I drop out, because she was a dropout, too. I come from a long line of dropouts. I still have nightmares about being late with my homework assignments. When I finally went in to sign out of high school, the teacher went, "Now, who are you again?" 

=And if that teacher could see you now! 

A lot of people think you get this big connection with a corporate label, and you make millions of dollars, but they don't understand that you just don't make that much money. And when you do, it's easy to piss it away. I mean, every cent that I've made, I've pissed away. I'm not gonna say how I did it, but I don't have it But I don't think you necessarily have to be a punk to decide to say, "Fuck it." You don't even have to have a direction. It's just a matter of getting the fuck out and exploring things for yourself. 

=But didn't you feel abject terror when you first set out on your own? 

Nah, I didn't. Because, for some reason, I knew things were gonna be all right. You can create your own future as long as karma's on your side. And I'm a strong believer in karma. I think things can come back to you if you're just willing to give. 

* * * 

True enough. At least six million times over!

1995 Tom Lanham