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ctl-yuejie · 3 years

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How the diverse world of the addictive tv series “Cherry magic” got made

(interview with scriptwriter Yoshida Erika by Yokogawa Yoshiaki)

沼堕ち続出ドラマ“チェリまほ”の多様な世界はどうやって作られたのか【脚本家・吉田恵里香さん】2020.12.22 横川良明

for @howdydowdy because we were talking about what a fantastic character Fujisaki is and the notion of consent when it comes to reading someone’s mind

Currently, societal values continue to change rapidly. On one hand the movement of respecting each other’s diverse individualities and making it easier for each and every one to live in society has become more active, one the other hand it is not a rare occasion to be lost for words when suddenly unconscious discriminatory biases – derived from not being able to cut loose old values that are rooted deep in oneself – raise their heads.

How should we exist within this period of polarization? This series is to create the opportunity to think about this topic by having discussions with the toprunners in the entertainment world. The person I am introducing for the first edition is screenwriter Yoshida Erika.

She is behind the script of “Thirty Years of Virginity Can Make You a Wizard?!”, the tv series that has grabbed the first spot on the oricon satisfaction ranking for 4 weeks in a row, and has gained fast popularity despite its late-night spot. The enthusiasm for the show can be attributed to the soft view Ms. Yoshida has on the world.

Yokogawa Yoshiaki (YY): I am happily watching the series. I really liked the original work, however the way it was adapted to a television format has been brilliant. One big thing is the making of the character of Kurosawa played by Machida Keita. By Adachi’s magic (played by Akasouji Eiji), the voice of Kurosawa’s heart spills out, and while the original text had him be quite blatant in his expressions overall, the drama carefully examines them.

Yoshida Erika (YE): That is definitely where there is a difference in depth. The original has the premise of a work in the BL genre, readers are expecting a BL-like development, so they can take such things in stride, but the viewership of the tv series is more varied. Under them there might be people who do not like BL. That is why I was conscious about how different people from different backgrounds might watch this show.

It is not okay to assault someone just because you were invited to their house, kissing or touching without consent is not okay and being of the same or different sex makes no difference in this. Treating such things as okay because it is BL would be rude to the parties concerned. Because we are using the BL genre, we want to specifically protect the “firsts” of the parties concerned. That is something the producer Ms. Honma Kanami and the director agreed about and I therefore paid extra attention to.

YY: Adachi himself, as he is about to step into Kurosawa’s house thinks “Not that I might possibly get assaulted?!”, and is very vigilant, but with some soul-searching realizes that that is rude towards Kurosawa. To say it briefly, you can feel the probity of the creators.

YE: I thought that a main character that thinks that he will get assaulted when he steps into the house of someone will not be loveable. No matter how well received the person is who acts it out, if we cannot love them on a human level, this drama will not work. Adachi’s power to read people’s hearts is also the action of seeing people’s darker sides on his own volition. That’s why a character we cannot love as a person will receive push-back by the viewers.

YY: Just like you said, the act of reading peoples’ hearts includes great violence. That is why I think that when he realizes that Kurosawa has fond feelings for him, unlike the original where he reads Kurosawa’s heart on purpose, the drama treats it as an accidental force. Over the whole series, it is of focal importance that Adachi doesn’t overuse his magic.

YE: That is where we were extremely careful. In the manga easy comprehensiveness is important and that type of suspense is interesting - and we don’t intend to deny that - but if you do it as a drama, I didn’t want to make him into a young man using his powers at ease. That is why, especially in the first half, he decides and tries very hard not to use his powers when possible. The scene where he reads the CEO’s heart appears in the first issue of the original, but in the drama we pushed it back to the 5th episode. We made it a point to illustrate how Adachi is filled with the emotion to help Kurosawa and that is why he uses his powers.

That what I don’t want others to do unto me, I do not want to inflict on characters.

YY: His colleague Fujisaki (Satou Ryo) is a Fujoshi in the original and that premise was cut from the series. If you decided to have a Fujoshi character on a prime time show, did you think that misunderstandings might arise easily?

YE: That was definitely a thought. In BL as a genre it is not an issue that a character exists that takes the same viewpoint as the reader, and I love Fujisaki in the original, but the people who are acting it out in reality are real people. At that point, loudly fawning about someone else’s’ love life is not perceived as good conduct. At the least, I thought that I wouldn’t want to be treated like that.

YY: It is fine to envision fictional characters as romantic partners, but it is different when you make a real acquaintance the target of that.

YE:

A thought we had was that if Adachi and Kurosawa were to really date it would be one thing, but grinning at someone - who might even be heterosexual – because you inflate your own BL adjacent delusion isn’t much different from a man grinning at a woman with big breasts and calling her sexy. I wouldn’t want to get treated that way, so I didn’t want to inflict that on the characters in the story as well.

When it comes to Fujisaki it isn’t like she isn’t a Fujoshi. We do not clearly state it, but I thought there was no reason to show it in the drama.

YY: You are saying, that it is fine that people might interpret Fujisaki as a Fujoshi when she is smiling at Adachi and Kurosawa.

YE: Yes. That is where you are free to imagine (laughs).

YY: What I thought was very fresh is that instead of proclaiming her to be a Fujoshi, Fujisaki is turned into someone who “is happily living her daily life even without romantic love”. We don’t often get characters like that in Japanese tv series.

Personally, I also like romantic tv series, but while feeling venerated when the main characters have realized their love in the final episode, when trying to build a romantic connection to someone else in real life it might not go well and beyond that, it is not that it never happens that I, who also holds interests in other things than romance, end up feeling empty because of the lonely feeling of having been left behind (when watching a romance on tv unfold).

But with having Fujisaki appear, it felt like I got rescued.

YE: Until now, for several projects I made the suggestion of a character that is not interested in romance, but I wasn’t understood. “Is it necessary to do that?” “Aren’t you overthinking it?” were things I got told often.

But with this production, when I said that I wanted Fujisaki to be asexual or aromantic, no one denied me. From that stage on I thought that this place was a good one, and thanks to the original writer giving her agreement it got turned into reality.

YY: Since this kind of character hasn’t really appeared in a tv series, it felt like people like Fujisaki were assigned to be non-existent in this world. But thanks to you envisioning her like this, seen from a person that like Fujisaki might say “I got used to acting “normal”” and feel a notion of despair when confronted with people not understanding them, it felt like it got emphasized that people like her also exist in our society. Picking such little voices feels like it is one of the purposes of entertainment.

YE: If that could become the case I would be glad about it. 10 to 20 years prior, a “fairytale gay” (describing the flamboyant gay friend, that mentally supports the heroine by giving some harsh but accurate advice) often appeared in tv series from abroad, but this portrayal slowly changed, finally it has reached the point where the view point that being gay isn’t something special has penetrated the public.

So this time, I believe that one of my duties was to tell the story of people that are not interested in romance or people who do not only love one person, not from a standpoint that is convenient for consumption, but to have properly realized characters up to their individual backgrounds.

I hope the time comes where it isn’t necessary to especially say “This is a BL series”

YY: Please let me speak on something that has confused me this far. Prior, when you explained Fujisaki in context of the script, it felt like it wasn’t okay to call her asexual or aromantic because she herself doesn’t use any of those labels. I was somewhat afraid that an outsider would just selfishly declare that “you are asexual, aren’t you!?” in regards to someone who hasn’t professed anything.

YE: There is the point of both of the terms asexual and aromantic not being widely known in Japan as much as compared to overseas and I also think there are people who just wouldn’t use these words. Even when you think you are not interested in romance at the moment, it could also be that you just haven’t found the person that makes you feel that way. That’s why I can understand how labelling someone has a violent notion.

YY: My next question is also relating to that: This applies to Cherry Maho, but generally when I write about over works that feature a lovestory between men I try not to use the word BL.

This is my own opinion but to me it feels like the term BL has too much of a sexual image.

In private I casually use the word BL. However, for the content of an article that is read by an unspecified number of people, I remember stumbling over labelling something as BL. Using BL as an easy genre specifier has the effect that there will be a layer that won’t get looked at. I simply want to have more people enjoy a piece of work. I don’t object to the editor using BL in the title but in the content I write, I try not to use the term BL story but simply “love story between two men” and keep it close to how you’d address it in reality.

YE: I understand that. Obviously, I don’t intend to shame the taste of people that like BL. However, I understand that there are people that feel a sense of resistance towards BL as a genre. That is why I also don’t use the word BL when I promote on twitter. I do think that it would be great to have a new word.

Just like women have things they don’t want to be subjected to, men also have things they don’t want to be subjected to. This kind of awareness has become more broadly spread bit by bit. However, in order to have it really penetrate society it needs for the voices of the affected people to be heard. But it is also the reality of today’s society that violence is directed at people that raise their voice. That is why I feel like it is the job of the people that create tv shows to speak up instead.

At the least, that is how I want to straightforwardly create the world, so that in 10 years without directly stating “this is a BL series” we have a society that takes it in as a “new cool romantic drama beginning” with “the leads being actor x and actor z” and as nothing unusual. Now we really have such a transitional period, and as a writer I want to build the steps towards it.

original article: https://mi-mollet.com/articles/-/27045?page=3&per_page=1

#cherry magic #thirty years of virginity can make you a wizard #30歳まで童貞だと魔法使いになれるらしい #30 sai made #a bit rusty with my translations but i really enjoyed how they were talking about the writing and character composition in the series and #decided that I had to share #long post

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testingcheats0n · 3 years

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Detroit Become Human AU where:

-> Tommy is an up-and-coming livestreamer of the retro game Minecraft- forming part of a fledgling community of all-human players of the game. His growth is slow but steady and he has a future in a genre that had fallen out of fashion with the rise of the newest and more immersive VR games on the market. People love to see an actual human that could make mistakes and win against another fellow human fairly. The nostalgia it brought to some people is also undeniably at play.

It's worth noting that Tommy is a very lonely kid, with a non-existent social life since he and his family had to move to America after his father struck a lucrative business deal with his brilliant protege.

-> Wilbur, Tommy's older brother and only guardian after their father, Phil, dedicated his life to the creation of androids with his young but brilliant pupil Elijah Kamski, is a simple busker. It's hard to find a job at 24 with no previous experience or further education, he had to take care of Tommy, after all. True, their economic troubles never ended, and he could barely provide for Tommy, but at least they had each other, even if Wilbur was off to the streets of Detroit more often than not. He has no idea of his younger brother's blooming career in the gaming industry and is very worried about his future. The solution? A very suspicious android his best friend Schlatt offers for very cheap.

-> Phil Watson is a household name together with Elijah Kamski's, they created one of humanity's greatest tools, after all. Nothing suspicious here, they're definitely not hiding any potential deviancies from the code! In any case, his family never saw a dime of the frankly insane amount of money piling up in his bank account. He has an old phone he carries in his pocket every day with Wilbur's phone number, but he never dares to call it despite RN800, his assistant's, insistence that he was only making his own life harder. He is going to dial that phone number someday. Surely.

-> TU880 is an android from an old companion/educational line, discontinued after a few notable bugs and glitches in their core programming. Nothing serious, or life-threatening, but many customers have complained about disturbing behavior that falls straight into the uncanny valley- he's too human. Schlatt, his previous owner, refuses to disclose where he got TU880 from, nor does he have any legal documentation to prove he is his owner. Wilbur, desperate to find a solution for Tommy's perceived loneliness pays the fifty bucks his old pal asks for the android without asking any questions. It's weird for an adult to go around with a teen model created to counsel adolescents and help them with their homework. TU880 had problems with reading his grocery list, anyway.

-> Tommy is a bit weirded out, he thrives in an internet community which openly despises anything android, but his good friend Technoblade has plenty of useful advice, from maitenance to behavior. TU880 is odd, which he discards as kinks and bugs of the older models, but they get along nicely once TU880's programming kicks in. He likes to help Tommy edit his videos and speak about the problems of adolescence, he is oddly fond of bees or anything small and defenceless and likes to tell his 'dreams' of scientists in labcoats and other kids like him stuck in experiments. Tommy listens with half an ear, TU880 is his friend, after all. He thinks nothing of it.

-> It all becomes a bit too much when TU880 accidentally appears on camera during one of Tommy's streams. People assume he's Tommy's brother, and insist on getting an introduction. TU880 is ecstatic, but from what Tommy's told him, revealing his artificial status might harm his friend's career so he greets the chat as Toby, Tommy's older brother. The community goes wild and Tommy has to pretend that TU880 is his brother (which isn't that terrible per-se) and not the house assistant who has a complete psychological profile of him.

-> TU880 begins to feel strange, both regarding Tommy and his own place in the household. Calling Tommy hus brother is easy as calculus and makes his thirium pump skip a few beats, but he's not sure if he should be getting this attached. He's sure he is malfunctioning in some way, but Schlatt always assured him that he is fine. He thinks nothing of it and instead continues to watch over Tommy.

-> Minecraft is fun, and he eventually gets his own account on Wilbur's old (read: ancient) laptop despite possessing an internal processor powerful enough to play the game at its maximum capacity in his mind, and probably in a 3D holoprojector. At this point, he's in too deep and the friends he's making would certainly ask questions if he were to disappear. He has the opportunity to talk about anything at all to his growing audience, and the community is very welcoming in general once one integrates into their culture. He still doesn't feel it's fair to participate in the tournaments and all the other official competitions. People find it odd, but they assume he's not very good at PVP so no one tends to comment on it for now. It's okay though, he and his new friend Ranboo act as commentators during the events and everyone thinks they're pretty funny.

-> Ranboo is fun to be around. He just gets TU880- or as the internet knows him as, Tubbo. They click easily, sometimes the other boy seems just as confused about other people's reactions and behavior as Tubbo is (despite his in-depth knowledge of psychology. He's not quite connected to Cyberlife's database anymore and his learning algorithm is outdated at best.) and they like to spend their afternoons with Tommy, watching movies. The game overtakes their lives and they spend a lot of time playing privately with the best strategies Tubbo's advanced algorithms and Ranboo's sheer brilliancy can create. That's how they meet their friend Fundy, who is more than happy to keep their Technical Minecraft server a secret, as long as he gets to do his own thing with coding and they test it.

-> Tommy is just happy that he can use the cool farms for his own grinding.

-> Technoblade is Tommy's mysterious internet friend and fellow growing streamer. Everyone is sure that he's an android infiltrating the budding community, but after several years of isolated incidents, investigations, and online scandals no one was able to prove anything. Technoblade just never dies. (Tommy is 50% sure his friend is really an android, the older man simply refuses to comment). It is possible to spend months farming digital potatoes, people are just mean and want drama. Technoblade is just vibing. Incidentally, he's also the first one to figure out that Ranboo and Tubbo are androids. He is also the first one to figure out they're deviants. He doesn't mention it until much later though.

-> Jack and Niki Manifold have successfully founded their own mechanic business for android repairs. Cyberlife mumbled and grumbled at the siblings' repair shop, but in the end it was good for PR so they let them be. Tommy and Wilbur become their friends as TU880's frequent malfunctions inevitably bring the pair to the cheapest android repair service in the city. TU880 can't complain, Niki is sweet to him and understands what is wrong with him just by his description, since his diagnostics aren't working entirely and each an every single one of Jack's repairs last loner than every other mechanic he's been to.

-> Gradually, Tommy's fame becomes apparent, and Wilbur has the time to actually rest and spend time with his brother. He's just happy that they can be together. A weight is lifted off his shoulders and for the first time ever he feels like his little family has a future. Not even once does it pass through his mind that TU880 isn't acting like a typical android- he avoided the things on principle. Once, TU880 calls him his brother and he cries.

-> Sam is Cyberlife's very own private investigator. He is in charge of researching and turning in possible deviants that might help the company with developing a solution for the rising problem. In particular, he's been after the trail of a specific line of androids, the first one released by Kamski and Watson dubbed as TU. According to his investigations the line might have contained the code responsible for deviancy. Further research indicated that Kamski's code was based on a group project from the Dutch university for cibernetics.

-> Fundy is just a 21 y/o with a Twitch account and a passing interest in coding. Nothing serious, nothing suspicious. He absolutely wasn't part of the early AI coding trials that Kamski would later on use as the basis for his own code. If someone asks, he has no idea what ra9 means. He is almost sure that his friends are androids, the thought makes him very happy.

-> Puffy is Phil's new psychologist. Need I say more? Eventual Hurt/comfort baby!!!

#dream smp #detroid become human #crossover/au #tommyinnit #tubbo #ranboo #wilbur soot #dream smp au

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saltpepperbeard · 4 years

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Ravenous ~An Everlark One-Shot~

A/N: Well hello hello again lol! A bit weird, huh? I don’t know why exactly I had a sudden surge of motivation, but quite honestly, I’m not mad at it. While the shot I wrote a few days back was a more original idea of sorts, this one was an “anonymous” suggestion. A rather EYEBROW RAISING SUGGESTION™ if you know what I’m saying ha! But for whatever reason, dialogue and ideas started flowing, and here we are! Just couldn’t help but explore Katniss desiring to Spice Things Up a bit. With that being said shjdkhskdls-

Disclaimer: This fic contains NC-17 related material, but y’all been knew. Y’ALL KNOW WHAT YOU’RE GETTING INTO LMAO.

And without further adoooooo...

Ravenous

It’s happening again. Our bedroom seems to rival that of the setting sun, the two dancing and paralleling. Just as the clouds and sky melt into orange, I too, find myself at its mercy. Just as the sun plunges beneath the horizon, so too, do our pelvises atop each other’s. Just as it sets fire to the grasses and trees as it plummets from sight, so too, do our roaming mouths and hands against each other’s bodies.

And just as the sunset is habitual, expected, so is the explosion within. It’s like clockwork. It’s like the mighty star’s journey across the sky. A soft, inviting, and consistent brightness is maintained throughout the day, before utterly exploding into color and passion as ebony surges forth.

The newness and its subsequent excitement must be why it’s so incredibly enticing, so normal in our schedule. To think, I used to be one with the dawn. The coldness, the solitude, and the call for survival...all were my essence. Now though, do I dance and take pleasure in the dusk, flooding with fiery color before all runs dark.

Not that I’m complaining in the slightest. No, I’m a medley of breathy giggles, mewled moans, and messy kisses. The usual, the expected, and the blissful.

So a subsequent shift in the cycle, in the ecstatic repetition, does indeed throw me when it presents.

Losing myself in Peeta each and every night allows my hunger to break free, spilling forth after being locked up for so long. It gnaws, it feasts, and it satisfies, before settling back to a hush, properly quenched. His initial touches, caresses, and kisses do marvels at igniting the starting flames. His following motions and salacious actions work wonders at surging the fire to a roar. And then his sweetness dampens the blaze into finality, into exhausted ashes.

But tonight...Tonight, it’s different. It feels...wrongfully intense.

I am not hungry- I am ravenous. It roars within me as if it’s never been satiated at all. It howls, screams, gnashing for a deeper satisfaction. The area between my legs aches almost painfully so, and the heat surging through my core snarls that it won’t be bested so easily.

Such a sensation almost feels instinctual, animalistic even. And with that notion crossing my mind, an odd picture presents itself within my subconscious. A symbolic representation? Or is it a solution, a suggestion that the deeper confines of my hankering body has pulled up? Either way, it’s bizarre, and subsequently earns a deep blush to my cheeks.

The image of a stag mounting a doe.

It’s something I’ve seen on rare occasion while hunting, a deeply intimate and almost sacred moment birthed from nature’s way. But translating such an intrusive image into our bedroom, into the current situation, and connecting the dots between the symbolism and the craving...

...Oh.

Oh.

My cheeks flush impossibly more so.

What an oddity. Peeta more than satisfies me. He gives me something no one else could possibly come close to offering. He takes me to realms unthinkable, and charts depths once-unexplored. And yet, does my body yearn.

What a foreign desire. I never could have pictured myself in such a position- or...intensely aching for one, rather. With carnal intimacy being so new to me, to the both of us, I never expected my body to erect anything of the sort. But I suppose, the deeper and deeper we traverse in one another, the more and more we’ll unlock. I guess there are still things to be discovered about each other, and complex layers of intimacy waiting to be unlocked...

“...Katniss?”

As if my cheeks couldn’t grow any more fiery.

I must have been quite disconnected, lost in thought and libidinous imagination. My grey eyes rapidly blink to break from the haze, but the desire still careens within. Venturing out from the fog reveals Peeta once more though, his beautiful, bare, handsome form hovering atop me. He too, is flushed, small beads of sweat glistening atop his scarred skin to compliment the fiery sheen within his darkened eyes.

But where there would be normally be a crooked smile, or an agape expression of pleasure, there instead exists confusion, concern.

When our eyes finally meet with clarity, he reaches to softly cup my cheek.

“Hey...” he murmurs, his voice still husky, breathy, “You alright?”

I cannot help but swallow hard. How the hell am I supposed to vocalize such a thing? Is it too taboo to ask for? The idea of...Peeta...taking me from behind?

I’m a mess, shutting my eyes and turning my face into his hand, as if to hide myself away.

“Hey...” His voice sounds more concerned, and a bit warmer. Some of the huskiness has disappeared too. And subsequently, a spark of desperation alights within me; perhaps because the hunger screeches at me to maintain heat.

“Sweetheart-”

Softening sentiments are cut off by a carnal kiss, my body piloting me to fight the dip. I lace my hands around the back of his head and pull his stunned form closer, breathily moaning through the connection. When I feel his lips begin to part though, when I practically taste the confused question forming on his tongue...

I know I have no choice. I know it’s now or never. And if I could stare the hunger dead on, if I could address its call and dive into vulnerabilities with Peeta before...

Surely I can do this too. Hopefully.

“Peeta?” I quickly interject.

I expect him to remain close, but just as ferocious desire pilots me, so too does compassionate concern steer him. He leans as far back as he can with my hands laced through his hair, staring with those inquisitive, stunning blues.

“...Katniss?”

“I...I...”

Just as the first time we delighted in one another, my throat threatens to lock up from anxiety, from fear of the unknown. Just as before, I find it horribly difficult to vocalize my wants. But in knowing that soft and concerned stare, in understanding the eyes that expectantly wait, and in feeling far fierier than previous times, I find the strength I need to produce a voice.

“...Can we...try something different?”

Nerves drive me to bite my swollen lip, as if Peeta’s going to react poorly or something equivalent. But as truly expected, he blinks the concern away before the tension visibly melts above me.

“Oh! Yeah, uh...sure,” he murmurs, beginning to smile despite lingering bits of confusion still present in his brows, “Is that why you...?”

“Yes...”

“Oh,” he breathes, chuckling softly before leaning back in for another kiss. He nestles close once more, our bare forms pressing and creating small hints of tantalizing friction. Be it the throbbing within, or the very present feeling of his erection between us, I break the kiss with quickened pants.

Unbothered now, and in a better understanding towards my desperation, he moves to kiss and bite at my neck. My hips and eyes both roll, the intense lust leaving me less bothered by the various noises sounding from my throat.

Peeta too, must be quickly getting tugged back; I feel him twitch before he softly grunts into the tender skin of my collar.

“What would you like?” he huskily whispers, topping off the question by tracing my bone with his tongue.

Between nerves and the sensations he’s dizzying me with, I briskly shake my head.

“Don’t make me say it...” I wheeze.

I feel his mouth turn upwards against my skin, and he chuckles before drawing forth artistry, painting his way up my neck and cheeks with brushing lips.

“Alright...” he says thickly, and I think I can feel him quivering slightly, “Show me then?”

I tense, but catching his stare grounds me. Beyond the drippings of ebony lust and fiery coals, I can see that beautiful understanding, that adoration with zero judgement. It’s what drove me to explore initially, and thus, does it fuel me once more.

My hands come to rest upon his muscular chest, quivering ever so slightly as I give a gesturing push. He follows my direction without hesitation, moving until we’re both sitting up on the bed. Another bout of hesitance grips me, but upon seeing the sight of him, heavily engorged and nearly flush against his stomach, I break through once again.

My stare manages to break to a necessity then, gazing upon his amputated leg with another bite of my lip.

“Your prosthetic...”

I can see his breath catch, watching his chest heave as I momentarily avoid his stare.

“...I need it?” he whispers.

I can only nod, and he thankfully doesn’t press, scurrying off to retrieve and reattach it. I’m piloted once more; my body seizes the opportunity to get into position while he’s not looking. Though my heart pounds something terrible, though trembles alight in my limbs, I roll onto my hands and knees, poised and ready for what I crave.

Peeta’s to my backside now, so I cannot see his reaction to what I’m offering. I can certainly hear it though, as well as almost feel it, the room seemingly spiking in temperature the moment he notices.

“O-oh...”

I tremble in both deep anticipation and tension, still unable to look at him. There’s a bit of pause though, and right when I think I’ve made a mistake, I feel the bed shift with the re-introduction of his weight. My thighs clench something terrible at his presence behind me, and I feel my entire lower half quivering.

Made even worse when Peeta groans my name.

“Katniss...”

The amount of lust is incredible. I could almost rocket myself backwards upon him. It’s wild, and hard to imagine how I wound up in such a position. But through the salaciousness, through the smoke clouding my brain, nerves still manage to peek.

“Is...this okay?” I shakily whisper.

“Yeah...” he breathes, and I nearly run woozy at the sensation of his hands ghosting my curves, “Is this...?”

I almost move beyond my own control, thrusting my hips backward and placing myself into his grasp. It’s his turn to tremble, and he groans yet again.

“God...Katniss...”

I’m his craft once more. His hands grasp me, knead me, squeezing my voluptuous backside as he would when he prepares dough. And just as the touch readies dough for heat, it too, sets me utterly ablaze.

Unbridled moans and mewls sound from my throat at his massage, my legs spreading wider and my back arching further. There’s barely a connection between anxiety and my ravenous core anymore, hunger almost entirely at the helm.

“God...” Peeta moans again, and such a noise pushes me into raw desperation.

“Peeta...” I whimper in a tone so unlike my own, “Peeta...”

We’re on the same plane. He understands immediately. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s just as hungry as I am, made raw by the sight before him.

So he quickly rectifies the situation. I feel the bed shift, before he brings a shaky hand to grasp one of my hips. I’m barely breathing, barely able to process with such deep anticipation. His following words almost don’t reach me, what with the beautifully torturous feeling of his head just barely brushing betwixt my folds.

“Okay...I love you, Katniss...”

I somehow wheeze, somehow manage, those words landing when nothing else can.

“I love you too- AH!”

I’m no stranger to the feeling of Peeta sheathing himself deep within me, to holding him snuggly and tightly in a space reserved just for him. We’ve danced in it and dazzled in each other so much lately that it’s, in fact, almost become something of a second nature.

So it’s definitely strange that just a mere change can have electrifying, incredible effects.

The cry from his entrance was utterly unavoidable; he feels deeper and heavier than ever before. I’m stunned at how different it feels, at the intensity behind it. He’s within familiar grounds, and yet it feels entirely new.

I’m dazed, but my hunger is utterly elated. It sings at the feeling, rejoices, driving me to slide myself backwards against him, swallowing him impossibly deeper.

His groan intersects beautifully with mine, the both of us likely relishing in the sensations. When I dare to ease my hips forward again, I feel Peeta’s other hand reach to grasp. With his hold complete, he pulls me back as he thrusts deeply.

And I already find that I’m quickly losing control, everything working to utterly unravel me.

The strokes, so deep and reaching, quickly earn a stream of incoherence from my hanging mouth. I moan and whimper and grunt a plenty, weaving a tapestry of pleasured nothings.

“Mmm...Oh, God...Peeta...”

There’s also something about this that strangely seems to amplify, something that makes it the most different from our previous sessions: I cannot see him. I cannot see the beautiful, wrenched effort on his visage, nor can I steal the moans from his lips. I cannot latch myself to his tender neck, nor can I run my fingers through his ashy locks.

It’s just the sensation of him within me. Nothing more but his powerful drives and our precious connection.

No wonder it’s so raw, so animalistic indeed.

But perhaps, not mutual.

Where I would expect Peeta to take off, to drive with reckless abandon, he instead remains...oddly consistent with his glides. They’re heavenly, and reaching, but unamplified. In fact, instead of speeding up as expected, he seemingly slows within me.

Such a turn, a difference in the usual chain of events, is enough to whip my head around. It’s my turn to furrow with confusion and concern, squinting through the intense mindfog to finally lay eyes upon him.

Which ends up being a blessing and a curse; the sight of him in such a position is almost enough to send me reeling further. Seeing him kneeling, grasping my hips, panting with reddened cheeks, and disappearing deep within...

A shiver runs up the length of my spine, exiting through my mouth as my voice just barely manages to quiver his name.

“...P-Peeta?”

“I...Um...”

It’s like we’ve switched places, what with him being apprehensive and me existing in a realm of thirst and confusion. Just as before, a cock of the brow and a building question is what spurs the opposite party into explanation.

“I’m...It’s going to sound...cheesy, okay? But I uh...It’s...Different I guess, not being able to...look at your face. Or kiss you. Or...”

He shifts himself a bit as he reaches for my face with a hand, effectively sending himself inward at a deep, torturous angle. It drives me strangely mad, my eyes rolling and my throat resonating with a squeak. It feels so foreign, to be reduced to this. And in my state, in my heightened desperation, I find myself blurting without much control.

“-Keep going.”

He freezes then, inside and out, looking upon me with widened blues. Such an expression mildly grounds me, offering a pang of guilt and a subsequent apology to follow.

“Sorry...” I wheeze, “I...I didn’t mean...If...you’re not...”

I’m a mess with my attempts to breathily stammer. But just as further guilt begins to bud, just as I fear I’ve forced him into an uncomfortable place, he gives such an unexpected and strong jerk of his hips that I yelp into the tense space.

When the shock leaves my system, when the static clears my brain, I’m able to see him beginning to smile once more, a bit more lecherous than before.

“Hmm...You know, different...might not be so bad then...”

“But-”

Again, he tortuously cuts me off, giving another strong jerk and sending me careening.

“Peeta!” I exclaim, looking at him with widened eyes, trembling legs, and a stunned soul.

“Because...” he grunts, softly squeezing and kneading my hips, “You like this, don’t you?”

He shifts then, focusing on slowly feeding himself into my depths, effectively earning a low grunt from his throat. A noise that’s quickly overpowered by my own, an open-mouthed moan as I squirm against the mattress, against his lovely torment.

“Peeta...”

“Yeah? You like it? Hmm, love?”

My eyes flash at his darkened vocals, followed by a bite of my lip to hush the rolling whimper. Something is most definitely in the air tonight. The sun surely exploded in its descent. We’ve never really been so...raw with each other, so driven and demanding.

But it seems neither of us have any qualms. Even my worry towards pressuring Peeta into an unfavorable session seems to back away, what with his ebony murmurs and expressions so evident. We seem to be re-aligning, re-joining each other on the same plane of passion.

Thus, do I desperately nod, at his complete disposal. I slide myself backwards then, easing until I’m practically touching his pelvis, panting and gritting at the extent of penetration.

“I’ve forever to kiss you..." he whispers.

Please...Please please.

I’m hardly with it enough to question the strangeness behind the newfound begging, simply squirming and existing entirely within the desperate space.

“...But not long enough to pleasure you so...”

Thus, miraculously, do any last bits of wall come tumbling down.

And I’m no longer in our bedroom. I’m within droves of ardent fire. I’m traversing the very surface of our sun. I’m in a place so foreign, a state so delightfully insane, where none have ever brought me before.

All from the sudden, strong, and intense reaches of him deep within.

Oh, how I fall apart. How I deliciously unravel. Being so pent up, so oddly starving, the hunger gorges and instantly sets me alight. Just as it screamed before, I too, find myself vocalizing with such strength.

It’s a medley, an absolutely chaotic medley of passion. Beyond my cries and his grunts, I can hear his pelvis slapping against my back side again and again. Beyond the flashes and shivers in my vision, I can see our bed hammering from the force he’s inflicting. Beyond the heat and pounding stream of blood, I can feel him hitting places so new and intense.

And it’s everything. I love him. I adore him. And I cherish the connection we have, the way we can send each other directly into the heavens. I never could have imagined. Even mere months ago, I never could have imagined.

“Gggh...Katniss!”

His deep grunt coupled with the groan of my name is enough to break me from my overwhelmed thoughts; the dig of his fingers into my hips is enough to ground me completely. I cannot escape the ungodly pleasure now. I am present, and at its full mercy.

And when a thrust hits just so, when a piece of my glass cracks and threatens to shatter, it’s no wonder that my arms fall instantly gelatinous. I cry and toss my head back, sending a rolling ebony wave before my front half descends. I desperately grip the blankets, knotting the fabric with begging grunts and whines.

But it only continues to build, and build, and build, impossibly faster and impossibly deeper. Our souls are tangled, so very tangled, dancing and intertwining and refusing to let go. Naturally, I start to ascend, faster than I ever have before. The fire licks its way up my belly, caressing my jiggling breasts and-

...No, that’s his hand, reaching beneath to knead and massage, emboldened and salacious. My eyes roll something terrible, my hips even more so, more and more of the glass chipping away. He’s snarling, almost yelling; I know he’s so close too. But somehow, just as he always has, Peeta dashes through the chaos and holds me above all.

His wandering hand suddenly juts backwards, racing down my body before fingers find their prized destination. There’s a subsequent bolt of electricity at my core, followed by a heave of tension as cracks spiderweb throughout. I’m on the cliff, on the edge, writhing and seeing it shatter before me...

“Peet-”

The final note of his name shifts into that of a divine keen, elongated and reaching as my wings outstretch. I feel like I’ve never flown so high before. It feels as if though I breach the very reaches of our atmosphere, everything whited out and flashing with a dazzling array of color.

Surely I’m screaming. Surely I’m crying out with such forceful contractions wracking my system. But I can barely breathe, barely process. There’s nothing but this. Nothing but him.

Him- somewhere below, I can hear his desperate groans. He too, yelps like he’s attempting to hold on to the Earth, to stop such a rapid ascent into space. But with a distant, cracking yell, and with another push that drives me even higher, I welcome him into my flying embrace.

I hold onto him so tightly. I fly and dance and marvel in the closeness, in the connection we share. I soar hand in hand, his softness rivaling that of the cloud we pass. Before eventually, inevitability, we must return to a realm more frequented.

I land hard. My form essentially evaporates upon impact. The moment Peeta breaks our connection, the moment he releases my hips, I fall into a heap atop the blankets. It’s no surprise that I’m shivering, nor that I’m weeping, overwhelmed to the warmest, highest degree. I remain on my stomach, limbs sprawled every which way, continuing to pant and ride through the occasional aftershocks.

When the sound of my pounding heart departs from my ears, when I become more aware of my surroundings, I can hear Peeta on the bed behind me, heavily panting all the while. Surely he’s sitting back, likely riding the same lingering effects as I.

But I need him. After almost selfishly delighting in such pleasures, I miss him. So I turn my head against the blankets, attempting to look in his direction as I reach with a hand.

“P-Peeta?”

Unsurprisingly, he understands. In mere seconds, he heaves himself beside me, flopping down atop the mattress. Though I’m utterly exhausted, and akin to jelly, I hoist myself onto my side and into his arms, our bodies as close as possible without the added element of fire.

And there, I snuggle, I caress, I kiss. I make up for the missed touches. He of course, reciprocates, the both of us tiredly offering all the affection we can muster between our shaking breaths. Soon enough, falling back into our usual patterns, we begin to smile. Then breathlessly giggle. Then speak and whisper sweet nothings through our exhausted exchanges.

“Oh...my God...Oh God...” I wheeze into one of our many kisses.

Peeta snickers a bit then, his hands beginning to softly rub circles against my bare back.

“I don’t...I don’t know what happened...what came over me...” I whisper, shying away to nestle my cheek against his.

He laughs more then, somehow managing to tug me even closer.

“Hooo, well...Whatever it was...I’m glad...I’m glad it did...”

I feel myself blushing, somewhat...shocked by the intensity of my actions. And in considering my behavior, in considering how ferocious the hunger was, it unsurprisingly reminds me of the likely sacrifice Peeta had to make in order to appease. I flush even harder, moving to hide my face against his perspiring shoulder.

“I’m sorry...” I murmur against his sweet skin.

“Hun?”

“I didn’t mean to- I mean, I didn’t...”

I of course, struggle through my words, through my explanation. I’ve never been good at saying something. But my love patiently waits, expectantly waits, continuing to softly rub me through the silence. As usual, his understanding anchors me, and I whimper the truth rather sheepishly.

“It just felt so good, Peeta...”

To my relief, he gives a hard, handsome laugh, rattling our tangled forms.

“That’s all I could ever hope for, sweetheart...” he replies with lingering chuckles, pressing his gentle lips to my dampened hair.

I sigh at the tender contact, but continue to push myself.

“Really though...I’m sorry...I didn’t...want to make you uncomfortable...”

“You didn’t.”

When I huff against his shoulder, he softly tugs me backwards, allowing our stares to connect once more.

“You didn’t, love. Clearly.” He chuckles a bit more, before falling back into his earnest tone. “Like I said, it was just...different, that’s all. I marvel in your beauty, you know.”

When I scowl at him, at the compliment, he grins even wider.

“And yes, I’m used to seeing your face in this. But thankfully, every inch of you happens to be stunning.”

“Peeta...” I groan, feeling my cheeks flush something terrible beneath his onslaught of tender eloquence. Once more, he laughs, before leaning in to give me a quick kiss.

“I just got to address the less...frequented places,” he continues with a smirk, “Which after tonight, won’t stay that way for long, I’m sure.”

I huff, which again, earns another snicker coupled with a kiss. When we break away however, I find myself staring into those sparkling, warm blues. His expression shifts into something more gentle, more awed, surely catching the earnestness behind my stare. My hands reach up to cup his face, stroking my thumbs against his scarred yet softened skin.

“I did miss this, you know...” I whisper, topping my words off with a kiss to his nose.

“Well, I did say we have forever,” he replies with a growing, crooked grin.

“That’s not long enough for this either...”

I pull him into perhaps the softest, tenderest kiss of the night, one more fitting for the day than the dusk. It’s one I pour all my adoration into, of course having to verbally proclaim it all the same.

“I love you so much...” I murmur against his lips.

Once more, the connection breaks from the strength of his smile, delightfully warming body and soul before the sentiments are returned.

“And I love you...”

There we remain for numerous comfortable beats, continuing to lazily kiss and caress until the last of the sunlight disappears from the night sky. I find myself contemplating what lead to such an explosion, what lead to my desire firing off to such an extreme degree. Of course Peeta would be on the same wavelength, though the grinning question that breaks the silence gets me laughing and shoving his chest.

“You don’t...happen to have further tricks up your sleeve, do you?”

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nanaminokanojo · 3 years

Text

Play the Game | Nanami Kento X You | Part 4/8

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"Play the Game" Masterlist

Nanami let out a deep breath, feeling the stiffness on his back. Pulling the almost dried up towel that was draped over his eyes. He doesn’t remember putting it there although he recalled resting on the couch on the study to rest for a bit some time at dawn, thinking he would wake up in time to move to the bedroom. As it turned out, he wasn’t able to manage that anymore and slept on that same spot until morning.

Sitting up, he saw that his files had been tidied up and there was a note on top which said, “You work too much,” in a familiar handwriting. He smiled to himself, realizing who it was from. There was no mistaking that ugly handwriting – one of your supposed flaws yet he found it very endearing that you were highly dexterous in giving life to still scenes but never really gotten around making your writing legible.

How you stumbled upon him in the dead of night when you were supposedly out camping in the woods with your pals was something beyond him, but he was thankful, holding onto the towel that you had left for him a little while longer before he started with his morning routine. He had every plan to stay indoors for the rest of the morning, probably catch up on some sleep, but while he was dressing up, he happened to catch a glimpse of you by the lakeshore, partly concealed by the trees.

Sleep could wait, he thought, hurriedly throwing on a round-neck, navy blue shirt to match his dark sweats and setting out despite his blond locks still damp from the shower. He jogged his way down the hill, looking for the exact spot where he saw you from the manor, finding you by the clearing near the massive oak tree with low-hanging branches that extended over the crystal water of the lake.

There you were, standing in front of a canvass ensconced on an easel. You appeared like a nymph under newly-risen sun with your long, white tresses braided to the side and hanging over your right shoulder. Breathtaking. There wasn’t another word that would describe how you looked like even with your back to him, dressed in a white, halter, crop top and a long, hippie skirt of the same color that had a slit going up your thigh, exposing the length of your legs.

Nanami had to consciously slow his steps towards you and tell himself to be still when he was near enough, keeping his hands inside the pockets of his pants to stop himself from recklessly reaching out and touching you for fear that the mirage before him will disappear. Except that you were real, existing in the same domain he was in, so near yet also so far.

You acknowledged his presence with a succinct nod, but your focus was on your work. For a while, he just stood behind you, watching the canvass fill with color, reflecting the orange and pink marmalade splashes of light in the morning sky. It was like watching a slow replay of what the heavens had been as the colors dissipated faster in reality while you immortalized it in oil paint, each detail prominent and not a single brush stroke amiss.

You were beautiful and you created beautiful things. And he wanted you. He wanted you so badly, but he didn’t have the heart to wrench you away from what you were doing.

"Why are you up so early?" you asked without turning around to look at him, your hand stopping mid-stroke with your paintbrush suspended from the canvass by a few millimeters. "You should be getting some shut eye after working so late."

God, he loved your voice, the sound cutting through the stillness like windchimes. Nanami distanced himself, satisfying himself with your divided attention and sat on the grass just under the ancient tree, leaning his back on the rough trunk. You were right about that. He was sleep-deprived, but he couldn't seem to rest easy without seeing you first thing in the morning. He closed his eyes, evening his breath out. "Since when were you so strict about sleep schedules?" he teased, knowing how you had such irregular schedules where proper rest was concerned.

"Since I found you still dressed up with your shoes on, sleeping on the goddamn couch at three in the morning," you sallied. “How you have energy to be walking around the grounds at this hour is just plain bizarre.”

He scoffed. “I could say the same for you, sweetheart. I don’t understand how you are up and about, painting no less, when you’ve been prowling around the study at dawn.”

At that, you laughed, leaning close to the canvass as you painted in more details into your picture. “I wasn’t prowling around as you’ve put it. It got all smoky around our campsite when the fire went out so we decided to sleep in the house instead.” You glanced over your shoulder at him. “I just happened to see that the study lights were still on and found you.”

Nanami met your gaze although it was short-lived since you turned back to your work. “Thank you.”

“I should have woken you up. Your back must hurt from sleeping like that.” You placed your brush on the cup hanging on the easel in time to see him eyeing you quizzically about your statement. “You tend to lean in favor of your left shoulder when your back is bothering you.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle at your response. “I have to give it to you and Satoru. Your observation skills are beyond normal.”

“It’s annoying at best when you’re programmed to see every little thing,” you stated, walking over to the edge of the water to dip a washcloth which you then used to wipe paint off of your hands. “But it also plays to our advantage, I guess. For instance, it’s easy to read through you when I notice everything like that.”

“You mean it’s easier to play your games with me when you observe me like you do?”

“Hey now, I’m being genuinely concerned here for once.” You snickered, tossing the washcloth on the pile underneath your easel before walking up to him and bending down slightly to his seated form. “Go back to the manor and get some sleep.”

Nanami clucked his tongue, inhaling the air slowly, savoring your smell as it entered his lungs, intoxicating him. “I find it hard to go back to bed the moment I’ve decided to leave it. I won’t be able to sleep much anyway.”

You pouted at that. “Then just take a nap if you can’t sleep much.”

He grinned at you then. “I’ll take a nap now if you’ll do it with me.”

“I’m not sleepy, but I’ll stay –”

“Then no.”

You shot him a disparaging look. “Are you being serious right now?”

Nanami had to suppress the laughter bubbling in his throat at the look of disbelief on your face, and before you could recover, he hooked a muscular arm over your waist, pulling you down so that you were seated between his outstretched legs with your back against his chest. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Seeing as you didn’t have any choice about that matter, you adjusted your position, fiddling with your skirt so it was shielding your bare skin from the grass. Nanami reveled at the fact that you did not seem bothered that he had his arm around your torso, the warmth of your skin directly touching his. You even went as far as leaning against him, your form slotting onto his perfectly like a puzzle piece.

He closed his eyes, pulling you closer as he leaned against the tree, letting his senses be filled with everything that was you from the feel of your warmth crashing against him to the smell of your hair and your even breaths, seemingly in sync with his. He knew he could live a life with no regrets if he gets to hold you like that every single day.

Giving in to his exhaustion, he breathed out, letting the gentle wind and the soft sounds of nature lull him to sleep. He didn’t know for how long he stayed that way with you, but it was already bright when he opened his eyes, coming to consciousness when he felt smaller fingers threading between his, followed by the faint sound of a giggle. Another hand reached over, landing on the side of his face. Unconsciously, he leaned against your palm, luxuriating in its supple smoothness against his cheek.

“Awake already?” you asked.

He looked down over your bare shoulder, feeling himself stir alive from the inside at the sight of your intertwined hands sitting on your lap. It was like a spark lit a fire in him, radiating from his chest and spreading wildly and searing every fiber of his being. Placing a hand over your hand which was touching his face, he started planting butterfly kisses onto your palm, your wrist.

A gasp left your lips when he lowered his head against your shoulder, nuzzling your bare skin in slow progression until he got to the junction of your neck where he latched his mouth, his gentle ministrations turning possessive and urgent as he peppered your shoulder and neck with kisses. He smiled against your skin when you felt your breath hitch while your grip on his hand tightened.

His other hand made its way up your chin, making you turn your head so he could look into your eyes, letting their blue depths consume him, finding his cue when they flicked to his waiting mouth. You weren’t fighting him, and in your own accord, you leaned in and met his lips with yours, kissing him with ardor, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer to you. Your chest heaved, your breasts rising with the action, only restricted by your tight top, tempting his hands.

“I want to touch you,” he murmured into the kiss. “God, I want you.” He let go of your lips, opting to place open-mouthed kisses all over your neck, lingering on the hollow of throat. “Tell me you want it as much as I do,” he rasped, biting onto your collarbone.

“Yes,” you keened, releasing your grip on his hand. “Touch me.”

That was all the encouragement he needed, swooping down once more to claim your lips with his while his large hands leisurely caressed their way up your waist, tracing the contours of your sides, your flesh pliant under the pressure of his touches as the clouds were submissive to the wind. They made their way up to the full swells of your breasts, coveting the succulent flesh from over the fabric of your top, gently squeezing.

Nanami let out an unsteady breath when you moaned softly in his ear, still unable to believe that you were there with him, openly accepting him and melting under his touch. He couldn’t remember the way he saw you before, the fact that you were his best friend’s younger sister, that at one point, he also viewed you the same way, as your lips melded and your tongues mingled. At that moment, you were your own person, the one kissing him back and awakening the heat in his flesh, the one he has his mouth and hands on in outright intimacy…the woman he is utterly and immutably in love with.

He continued to shower attention to your lips while his other hand, slid down to your thighs, finding the slit of your skirt, blindly pushing the garment aside. His rough palm brushed against the inner flesh of your thigh, tenderly stroking. He took possession of your knee, gently lifting your leg so that is was hanging over his, making you spread open.

You pulled away from him, startled when you felt his hand sliding up your thigh. “Nanamin…” you panted, eyes wide as you regarded him, trying to grope for words but none came out.

He hooked a finger onto your lace underwear, leaning close to you as he whispered, “Kento. Call me Kento,” his breath hot and wet on the shell of your ear.

“K-kento,” you repeated. “What –” Your intended question was cut short by a sharp moan when he snaked his hand into your panties, and inserted his finger into you, the action made easy by the slick that had pooled at the apex of your thighs, causing you to arch your back, fingers tangling with the fabric of his sweats.

“You were saying?” he asked with a chuckle before placing kisses on your shoulders again, your hips bucking upwards when he started rubbing your sensitive nub with his thumb while he added yet another one of his fingers to thrust inside you, their length finding your sweet spot repeatedly until all you could think of was him pleasuring you, his ministrations making you see stars.

“Oh god…Ken…” you let out breathily, your hand finding purchase on the grass beside his thigh. “Right there.”

He hummed in response and curled his fingers inside you when he felt your walls clench around them. He started moving at a faster pace. “That’s it, my love. Cum for me.” His tongue lapped on your neck, making you shudder as you reached your high, making beautiful sounds for him as your juices dripped out into his hand. He pulled his fingers from between your legs, glistening with your essence which he licked off with his tongue, eventually placing his fingers into his mouth and sucking them clean.

“You taste so fucking good,” he said, bending down so he could kiss you again.

You were a shivering, panting mess when Nanami finally let go, your chest heaving up and down as you slowed your breath, leaning against him. A thin sheen of perspiration covered your exposed skin, glimmering under the rays of light that shone through the canopy of leaves above you. Nanami marveled at the hazy look about your eyes as you looked back at him in wonder as if he was the only one you could perceive at the moment, your flushed cheeks and your pink lips, raw and slightly parted as you respired.

Unable to help himself, he held you tight against him, resting his chin on your shoulder, just watching you come down from your high, the high he brought you to. If this was what he would see every single time he made love to you, he didn’t think he would ever come to terms of ever letting you go or getting enough of you.

When you finally composed yourself, you started chuckling, closing your eyes and placing a hand over them.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, fingers tracing patterns on the back of your hand.

“Us?”

“Hmm? Why is that?”

You finally opened your eyes and looked at him. “I mean this. You, me. I mean, am I imagining –”

Nanami rolled his eyes and cut you short, kissing you briefly. “Did that feel imagined to you?”

“No,” you answered promptly, stopping him when he leaned close again, causing him to laugh, the action reverberating on his solid chest. You sat up, putting distance between them, cradling your head between your hands. “Seriously, quit frying my brain so early in the morning.”

He squeezed you on the hips, making you yelp and motion to stand up, but he didn’t let you. “So,” he grinned cheekily at you, “I fry your brain now?”

“You know you do.” It was your turn to catch him off guard by kissing him on the cheek before you finally stood up. He was such a sucker for the small things you do to him. You cocked your head to the direction of the lake, hands proffered for him to take. “Take a dip with me?”

Nanami took your hand, standing up as well. How can he resist? “Okay.”

My, my. Geto Suguru glanced at Gojo. The groom-to-be was seated opposite him at the balcony that overlooked the gardens and most of the estate grounds, his back to the view. He was completely oblivious to what was going on around him, that much the former has figured. The estate was always refreshing and breathtaking, probably more of a home than any of the houses he owned, but it wasn’t as interesting as what he was witnessing unfold down the hill.

He just arrived, his head hurting from jetlag. Honestly, he was looking forward to resting after meeting Gojo and the family. He was particularly looking forward to meeting you as someone whom he shared a close relationship with, but lunch had come and gone and you haven’t showed up yet. He was told that Nanami was most likely sleeping in after working late, fucking workaholic, he thought, but now, it was evident that his host didn’t know shit about what he was saying where the other male was concerned.

From the walkway going up the hill, he saw you with none other than Nanami Kento. You two of you were walking on the grass, your respective shoes on your hands. You were carrying a covered canvass, a leather bag slung across your shoulder which Geto figured were your art implements while your companion was carrying your easel. By the looks of it, the pair of you came from the lake, took a swim judging from your damp hair and clothes. Definitely a spur-of-the-moment decision considering the glaring lack of the usual bath stuff that the family and guests alike brought to the lake on the occasion that they went for a dip.

It was puzzling to see Nanami being carefree enough to actually be engaging in a spontaneous activity. And was the bastard laughing? Geto scoffed, chuckling at the sight before him. Gojo was still clueless, but Shoko, who had a clear view of you, was nodding her head as she exchanged looks with Geto. “It’s happening,” she murmured.

“Yes, it is.” He grinned. “This will be fun.”

“What is?” Gojo asked, narrowing his eyes at his best friend.

Geto removed his sunglasses, arching a brow at Gojo. “Are you sure I’m the one who had been overseas all this time?”

Utahime snickered, already aware of what they were talking about, much to Gojo’s chagrin. “What are you talking about?”

Before anyone could answer, the sound of your laughter echoed from the main hall, evidently in the middle of a playful banter with Nanami who was evidently running out patience as he countered your every statement with clipped responses. At odds to that, however, was the fact that, when you were within view of the others through the glass doors, you were holding onto his hand above you as you twirled, your smile wide while Nanami looked on in open amusement.

He was the first one to notice the four pairs of eyes who were on the two of you, holding onto your shoulder to stop you from continuing on your way deeper into the mansion.

“What?” you asked him, turning and taking a step back so you were standing less than a foot away from him. Too close to anyone who was seeing you interact, the psychological space between you obviously gone.

“Hi, princess,” Geto called out, noticing how everyone was eyeing you both, their jaws slack, even Shoko who has always been in the know where you and their friend were involved.

You turned your head towards him, the surprise on your face turning into full-blown delight at the sight of him. “Suguru!”

Ah, he thought. Just the greeting he was looking forward to hearing. Mirroring your expressions, he opened his arms wide, waiting for you to come to him, and as expected, you bolted from where you were standing beside Nanami, throwing all your limbs around Geto, hugging him tightly.

“Hello, beautiful. It’s been a while,” he said, returning the gesture with as much fervor, one of his hands coming up your thigh to support your weight. He prided himself with the fact that he was the closest to you apart from Yuuji, and that he was the only one among your brother’s friends who could elicit such a profound, unfiltered reaction from you.

It was further proven by the fact that Gojo had a sulky look while Nanami was pretty much breaking at the seams as he pointedly stared at Geto’s hands on you.

“I missed you!” Your fondness for the man was unmistakable and he reveled in it. “You could always bet I missed you more, baby girl. You’ve gotten prettier since the last time I saw you.” He put you down on the ground and immediately took possession of your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You think so?” You were positively glowing at the compliment.

Geto smirked. He was also the only one whose compliments you were not immune to. “Satoru better be guarding you well enough to keep your admirers at bay.” He tucked your hair behind your ear before straightening up and looking at Nanami who was standing behind you. He may be a few a steps away from you but the possessive stance he had as he looked at Geto radiated from him.

“Oi, Kento. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.” He greeted, clapping said male on the shoulder.

The blond just nodded. “I was free for the whole week.”

Gojo butted in, his eyes momentarily lingering on you, but he regarded Geto in disdain. “You’ve got guts showing up here three days later than Kento and acting all lovey-dovey with my baby sister!”

“You know why. I’m here now, darling, so shut it.” He always used the sarcastic endearment for Gojo whenever he was sulking like a brat.

He lunged at Geto, placing him in a headlock, giving him no choice but to let go of you although he wanted to annoy Nanami further. He still had tricks up his sleeve to rile the blond though. "Let's catch up later, baby girl. Your baby brother wants attention."

"You're stealing my sister from me. She doesn't even say she misses me."

"I can hear you, Satoru," you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes.

"See! You've corrupted her against me."

Geto chuckled, turning tables on him. "You're the only one who's ruining your image to your own sister."

“Cut it out, you two,” you stated then turned towards Nanami, and to everyone’s stupefaction, you said, “I’m going to shower. You coming?”

“What do you need Kento in the shower for?!” Gojo, overacting as always, demanded from you.

Shoko laughed, unable to suppress it while Geto whistled.

You flashed Gojo a scathing look then. “For someone who’s supposed to be my brother, you’re kind of a moron. You know what I mean.”

“You’re gonna shower together,” Geto chimed in, adding fuel to the fire.

“I need someone to scrub my back for me, right?”

Gojo looked horrified. “Are you crazy?”

You shrugged, dragging Nanami with you. “Yeah, maybe. Wanna join?”

“Don’t even think about it, Kento!” Gojo warned.

Nanami didn’t say anything, following behind you.

Geto could just smile slyly as he watched the pair disappear into the house again. He has just arrived but things were already taking an interesting turn. It will be a fun week indeed.

-end of part 4-

*I used “you” here, but since my character is Gojo’s little sister who is established to be his female clone for reasons essential to the plot, she possesses the same blue eyes and white hair. I did not exactly want to create an OC (although technically, I did by describing Y/N), but I opted for the best of both worlds in this fic, leaning more towards the literary aspect of it as opposed to it just being reader/you-oriented. I hope this isn’t iffy to anyone, and yeah, i’m not being exclusive or whatever.

Thank you so much for reading. Likes, comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated! Hope you enjoyed it.

PHOTO/IMAGE/GIF/FANART CREDITS TO THE RESPECTIVE OWNERS.

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zero-affect · 3 years

Text

On Mark Fisher, Hauntology and Acid Communism

17 May, 1980 – On the night Ian Curtis killed himself, he watched Werner Herzog’s Stroszek on the BBC. Herzog’s existential tragicomedy is an askance vision of the American dream where the soul and sanity slowly erodes. Escaping physical torment in Berlin, alcoholic busker Bruno Stroszek migrates to rural Wisconsin with prostitute Eva and elderly neighbour Scheitz in hope of a better future, only to be broken further by illusionary promises of prosperity. Here, they kick you spiritually, Bruno says, and ‘do it ever so politely and with a smile, it’s much worse’. Eva leaves Bruno as bills amount and his mobile home is repossessed and auctioned off. Scheitz (whose mind has decayed) and Bruno attempt to rob a bank. They find it closed and instead stick up a barber shop. Scheitz is arrested and Bruno flees to a drab Cherokee amusement-park in a truck with his remaining possessions: a shotgun and a frozen turkey. The film’s conclusion reproaches any promise of a meaningful future existence as life deteriorates into absurd repetitions: the truck drives itself in circles until it catches fire, Bruno rides a chairlift up and down until he shoots himself – “Is this really me![?]” emblazoned on the back of the seat – and, most prominently, a chicken dances around and around and will not stop.

Watching these final moments now, it’s easy to see how Stroszek could have resonated with the Joy Division frontman and acted as what Herzog would call a ‘ritual step’ to his suicide hours later. The inane loop that Herzog presents feels like he was wiring directly into the interior world of the depressive, a place where any anticipation for the future is foreclosed by a sense of pervasive liminality. In my own experience, this mindless repetition is what depression is most like. Feelings of emptiness pervade much more so than any abject sadness. To be sad suggests the reverse is possible. Instead, life feels devoid of meaning, so there isn’t anything to feel in the first place. You simply go through the motions of life despite feeling that they are pointless and, often, ridiculous. Journeying the arctic wastes, getting closer to nowhere. Joy Division was jacked into this void. Driving bass lines and mutated disco rhythms spoke to the heart of nothing more than gentle instrumentation and whispery vocals ever could – you can dance, but what for?

But to be depressed is often more than just a chronic mood of despair felt within. The depressive enters an exchange with the world where their mental state is projected onto their surroundings, the same surroundings that seem conducive to that very depression. The repetitive motions of daily life are thus not just absurd to you but seem innately so. In a world that seems destined to collapse in a cocktail of geo-political crises, (cyber)wars and the obsoletion of meatspace it feels pointless to work towards a future that will decay into nothing. Existentialism is a pervasive mood for us younger generations and the increasingly endemic state of mental illness in Britain is not just a reflection of today but of the fact that tomorrow looks no different.

Mark Fisher believed that this psychological loss of the future is the pathological condition of 21st century subjectivity. In Ghosts Of My Life, he argues that our sense of a linear progression of time has drained away – the futures that were promised yesterday have failed to transpire today. For Fisher, this ‘slow cancellation of the future’ (quoting Franco Berardi) is felt at a cultural level. The rapid forward momentum of 20th century cultural production has been displaced, we no longer experience the radical breaks and dislocations in culture that were felt in the previous century. Instead, a formal nostalgia dominates the present as contemporary mass culture expresses an overwhelming tolerance for the archaic. UK music provides his best examples as artists such as Adele and the Arctic Monkeys have naturalised ‘a vague but persistent feeling of the past’ through their reconfiguration of 20th century sonic qualities. Any progress is now minor and incremental, weighed down by declining expectations – the cutting edge has been dulled. The result of this cultural anachronism is the experience of time being lost, ‘it doesn’t feel as if the 21st century has started yet’. As Adam Curtis says at the beginning of his recent documentary series Can’t Get You Out of My Head, today’s paralysis is ‘giving you today another version of what you had yesterday and never a different tomorrow’.

This cultural impasse is the product of structural and political conditions. Fisher argues that neoliberal capitalism has deprived us of the resources for artistic experimentation, not only in economic terms but also at the level of consciousness. Increasing demands on time, money and attention means we are we are too tired for original cultural production and attentive consumption; comfort and profit is safe within the already proven familiar. The intense rhythm that life now runs at has reduced our capabilities to dream. Massive collective overstimulation means we are no longer able to journey into the depths of subconsciousness and reach out to what’s on the other side. Our lives in hypermediated cyberspace have replaced neural pathways with proxy minds that endlessly trigger us into states of simultaneous boredom and anxiety, beyond thought and concentration into rapid-fire data processing, what Fisher calls ‘post-literate schizo-subjectivity’.

As Frederic Jameson explains in his influential essay ‘Postmodernism and Consumer Society’, the schizophrenic experience (used descriptively, not clinically) is one of temporal discontinuity; time and meaning breaks down and the schizophrenic subject can do nothing and becomes no one. Jameson similarly claims this experience of schizophrenia is an expression of the logic of late multinational capitalism whereby consumer society folds into obsessive repetition, an intense, hallucinatory and unbearable experience of being ‘condemned to live a perpetual present’. Stroszek’s temporal loop seems particularly resonant here: the tireless demands of subjectivity create a pointless dance that repeats endlessly and the resulting depression that envelops Bruno is the same that plagues us now. The ‘crushing sense of finitude and exhaustion’ of the 21st century that Fisher describes means we are unable to create unimaginable futures.

If popular music culture was Fisher’s most applicable symptom when writing in 2013, then popular cinema is the abject example of cultural stasis today. Fisher cites Jameson’s other feature of consumer capitalism’s postmodernity, pastiche, as demonstrative of how culture disguises its archaic form via new technologies. But Jameson’s example of pastiche’s mass culture manifestations, the ‘nostalgia film’, needs to be updated. If Star Wars gratified a deep longing to revisit Buck Rogers serials hidden within its special effects, the continuation of Star Wars today gratifies a longing to return to itself, demonstrating a new level of formal nostalgia. The first of the franchise’s sequel trilogy, The Force Awakens, is shameless in its re-hashing of the (un)original A New Hope. Minute upgrades to iconography, lazy name changes that do little to guise the recycling of archetypes and the pageantry of original cast members and classic props illustrates how the “new” Star Wars is an overt re-run of its own past. Pastiche is now fucking itself.

The dominance of this hyper-pastiche, the prevalence of reboots, remakes and latter-day sequels, speaks to how the nostalgia film is no longer obfuscated as new but foregrounded as a revival of past forms. An overwhelming reliance on recovering recognisable titles and building franchises based on past media churns out zombie forms that market nostalgia as the norm, a sign that the slow cancellation of the future’s gradual waning of cultural progression has reached its final halted form. Cryostasis. Mass culture doesn’t need to pretend to be new anymore, technology now facilitates artificial immortality to endlessly force a reverence for the past and never move on. Nowhere is this more evident than in the resurrection of actors via CGI. Late capitalism’s relentless desire to sell us the same product on repeat has risen the dead. And it is the inherently soulless and uncanny nature of these undead non-performances which is so exemplary of how popular cinema and the rest of our lumpen mass culture feels so deflating.

Nothing has changed since Ghosts Of My Life’s release in 2014, at least not for the better. But whilst Fisher was able to chart the slowdown of time by contrasting the lassitude of today with the futures projected by the ‘recombinatorial delirium’ of Jungle, Trip Hop and the rest of the experimental music culture he experienced in the 90’s, I’m part of a generation that has only ever known the malaise of the 21st century. The depression that Fisher describes is caused by the failure of the future, life getting worse, whereas young people today have no sense of difference, we’ve never had a future. The full realisation of Jameson’s postmodernism, where there are no new styles and worlds to invent, means art can no longer offer visions beyond today’s faltering economy, unstable job market and dismal political landscape, not to mention the apocalyptic weight of climate change that the youth of today will be the first to truly contend with. Having never known culture’s true escapist capabilities and only ever a postmodern fragmentation, this generation exists without hope or meaning, even for something that has been lost. The return of the void (Fisher writes: ‘If Joy Division matter now more than ever, it’s because they capture the depressed sprit of our times’). It’s no wonder that British youth live only for occasional weekends and short-lived summers. A half-life of binge drinking in parks, shit club nights and raves-that-aren’t-what-they-used-to-be in hazes of lager, cannabis and amphetamine/ketamine/benzodiazepine infusions that stimulate some remnant of feeling (“I love you mate, but I don’t know who you are”) only to come crashing down into unbearable mornings-after, heart palpitations and devastated mental health. We don’t want to grow up, because there’s no world to grow up into.

This isn’t to say that contemporary culture is completely devoid of anything worthwhile. There are glimpses of the new and the other, but these arrive disparately. The internet has completely restructured consumption. Paradoxically, the interconnected digital world has made culture feel disconnected from the individual in that it now seems to only exist in the realm of cyberspace, separated from real life and away from something tangible. The spaces of subculture have been reduced to forums and comment sections, drawing in members from around the world but retreating its presence from the milieu of everyday life. Without this tactility, there isn’t a sense of a cultural project, that you’re a part of something bigger. Punk’s outward anger rears its head now and again, yet in the age of personal instability, this energy is often inverted inwards into the mental turmoil and isolation of Post-Punk (see Black Country, New Road). Fisher’s argument is that what is lost in the 21st century is a trajectory, the creative force to create new worlds. The classic YouTube comment-turned-meme, “I was born in the wrong generation”, now seems more than just an adage for 13-year-olds discovering Led Zeppelin or Nirvana. It’s a yearning for a time when cultural production coalesced into a shared energy with which to sculpt the future.

It’s this emotion of yearning that constitutes Fisher’s reaction against these lost futures, his adaption of Derrida’s concept of hauntology. Hauntology is explained through Freud’s notion of melancholia: a refusal ‘to give up the ghost’ – Fisher’s refusal to adjust to the current conditions. Freud writes that ‘melancholia behaves like an open wound’ and, for Fisher, this wound is his longing for the ‘resumption of the processes’ of the cultural and political momentum of the 20th century. It’s not that the culture of the past was necessarily better than the anachronistic reconfigurations of today, but that the aforementioned energies of cultural production promised more. The libido remains attached to this original, uninterrupted timeline. Hauntology is the virtual spectres of what should have been, a stain on the temporal loop that reminds us that time was supposed to move forwards.

It admittedly took me a while to “get” hauntology, probably because I’ve never known anything but the depression of the 21st century. The pages that make up most of Ghosts Of My Life are essays about certain hauntological traces and phantom presences that still linger. At first glance, these chapters seem to be little more than disparate fragments of Fisher’s own haunted house, nostalgic vestiges of things he used to love. I wasn’t sure if these ghosts were able to rupture the fabric of futurist defeat. The use of hauntology to describe the sonic textures of artists like Burial and The Caretaker complicated things further in my mind. Hauntology seemed instable, although this is part of its appeal and its very nature. I soon started to understand that the identification of hauntology was an act of resistance, but it wasn’t until I read Fisher’s introduction to Acid Communism that the yearnings started to make sense as alternative possibilities.

Acid Communism calls for the resumption of the momentum of 60’s and 70’s counterculture. The spectre of this period – ‘a time when people really lived, when things really happened’ – offers a return to the open modes of consciousness that defined countercultural thought and promised unbridled freedoms, freedoms which Fisher again argues have been thwarted by the project of neoliberalism. Fisher writes that the 60’s still haunts us today because the futures projected by the counterculture have failed to happen – another future lost. The exploration and experimentation of new modes of consciousness in this period turned the metaphysical into the mainstream and ‘promised nothing less than a democratisation of neurology itself’. To re-ignite the psychedelic, spiritual and social imagination of the counterculture today would allow us to interrogate the very conditions that subjugate us to the temporal loop and reduce us into somnolent agents of mindless cyberspace. Going back to the notion of depression as a suspicion of modern life’s inherent absurdity, adopting new modes of thought and perception can make us lucid to just how ridiculous our lives today really are. Fisher’s commentary on Jonathan Miller’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is particularly evocative: ‘In the solemn and autistic testiness of the adults who torment and perplex Alice, we see the madness of ideology itself: a dreamwork that has forgotten it is a dream, and which seeks to make us forget too’. What Acid Communism proposes is what hauntology yearns for. To reconnect the trajectories of the past to where they should be now, to carry on where the counterculture left off, to continue the mass exploration into new ways of seeing and thinking, to find the energy needed to break out of the cultural impasse and to invent the futures that are unimaginable now but were once seemingly inevitable.

However, just like the counterculture, Acid Communism is an unfinished project. Fisher committed suicide in early 2017, leaving behind just a draft of the introduction. Acid Communism has become hauntological in itself, leaving us to wonder what new futures could have been imagined if the book was completed and if Fisher lived on and continued to confront our absurd postmodern (un)reality. The phantom that remains, the phenomenal body of work that he left behind, collected in books, articles, lectures and in the databanks of k-punk, haunts us because Fisher’s philosophical resistance, (cyber)punk attitude and unrelenting intellectual creativity continues to be needed and the ideas are only becoming more pertinent.

Further into the depths of cultural inertia, hauntology is now more important than ever. To keep the wound open resists accepting the continuation of the depressing conditions of the 21st century. But having only ever known time in stasis, it’s hard to be melancholic for a cultural trajectory that I’ve never been a part of. Perhaps the only hauntological trace that can truly resonate for me is Fisher himself. It’s no coincidence that this first blog post is about him. Fisher writes that beginning his k-punk blog was a way of working through his depression and my reasons for writing are similar and directly inspired by his work (the title of this blog comes from a phrase Fisher used to describe the bleakness of depression). Moving through my early twenties has frequently felt unbearable as I’ve become more conscious to how meaningless life is, or rather, how meaningless life now feels. Looking to the future is often an unsettling process in that it’s difficult to imagine anything positive. This sense of precariousness isn’t unique to this time. Yet, I wonder if growing up in the 21st century isn’t wrought with uncertainty but, rather, with a certainty that things will always be empty. Fisher introduced me to alternative possibilities from this painful existentialism. His work is all about uncovering traces of the Outside, finding the future in the strangest of places. Through Fisher I started thinking beyond again, reconnecting with the weird dreamworlds of my childhood.

The loss of Fisher leaves us with an imperative to continue the project, to continue tracing hauntological spectres, cultural fragments and new (or forgotten) ways of thinking into awakening the future. If we can’t immediately conjure up the counterculture, then we can continue the trajectory of the more immediate ghost that is Fisher’s spirit of resistance. This feels as difficult as it is crucially important. For my generation, depression is inborn, life feels immobile, defeat is hardwired. However, whilst Ian Curtis found confirmation of life’s futility in Stroszek, David Lynch was watching the very same transmission and reportedly was filled with joy and inspiration which motivated him through the difficulties of filming The Elephant Man. This story speaks to Fisher’s optimism at the end of Capitalist Realism: ‘The long, dark night of the end of history has to be grasped as an enormous opportunity[…] From a situation in which nothing can happen, suddenly anything is possible again.’ Life has become malleable, and the void should be seen as a blank canvas. The challenge is to dream again. To find a way to detach ourselves from the numbness and insomnia of cyberspace and the dopamine-laced seduction of the pleasure principle. Exploring the depths of consciousness is not just an experiment of isolated self-discovery, it’s a mode to rediscover a universal humanity. Disconnection becomes connection. Somewhere in the mind lies a communal future and, at a time when there seems to be no such thing, the answer may be unexpected, strange and just what we need.

Thanks Mark, I miss you.

#mark fisher #hauntology #acid communism

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static-fanatic-1 · 4 years

Text

(Edenian Royalty Reader)

(First daughter of Sindel)

A thunderous whip cracked through the thick atmosphere with precision to a man's back. The elderly man's back bent at the sudden pain upon his sliced open wound. He gasped for air under the beating sun and over the scorching hot sands beneath his feet. "Hurry up you lousy man!" Screeched an Osh-Tek guard at the unfortunate soul on the other end of his whip. "The emperor will not abide to this worthless behavior!" He growled again, this time to all of the slaves taken from Edenia's rebels.

(y/n) watched closely with venom as her people were being tortured for a false Emperor. Beside the female, Rain growled as well, his deep and fluid voice echoing rhythmically through her skull. "Filthy Emperor, He does not deserve the throne."

"Correct you are, Rain, once we take control of Outworld it will be no issue to save them and restore Edenia to its former glory."

Rain nodded at the female's words, she was correct in every sense. After the death of Meleena things had become much easier, due to loosing her spoiled self. D'Vorah had made haste in taking her down to feed her filthy hive, and after that the same bug had attempted an escape with a precious amulet. Luckily she was cut short, no telling how bad things could have been. Unluckily it was Kotal Kahn who had taken the amulet into his own hands, using it to further show his power over the realms.

Rain huffed in irritation, Tanya appearing beside him. "I have received word from one of our scouts that Kotal Kahn's Osh-Tekk are making their way back to Edenia soon, possibly to collect more slaves." Tanya spoke clearly with her smooth voice.

"We cannot allow that to happen, Rain, Tanya, we must make haste in our actions. When will the Osh-Tekk be leaving?" (Y/n) spoke up with pain in her voice, her (e/c) eyes showing worry as her eyebrows furrowed. The female couldn't stand seeing her people being hurt.

"Princess (Y/n), I see you are in distress, but only time will allow victory." Tanya proposed. "As for their departure, it was not specified."

Rain turned his body from the buildings edge to the two beside him. "Your majesty, there might be a way to infiltrate the Kahn without him knowing." Rain paused for a second as if to rethink his words.

"I'm listening."

"Ko'atal has yet to know if your existence, you could possibly get into his palace and destroy it from this inside out. Tanya and I will assist from afar."

Tanya gritted her pearly white teeth. "It is not safe for the Princess, besides we do not know if any Edenian has spoiled her surprise."

Rain nodded. "That is true, that is why I was hesitant to propose this tactic, but Princess (y/n) isn't wrong, we need to act fast or else we might lose our chance. The Kahn is becoming stronger with every passing day, time is of the essence.

If Princess (y/n) was to get close to the Kahn then she could sneak Shinnok's amulet away, we could get the upper hand." Rain finished, sitting down on the roof instead of crouching.

Tanya and (y/n) sat down with him, forming a triangle. "Rain is right Tanya, if I could retrieve the amulet then we could easily take back Edenia and take over Outworld. I wish we had time, Tanya, but our forces are falling to the hands of Kotal Kahn, we have only a few men left at our disposal. Not to mention fewer now that Meleena is dead." (Y/n) calmly stated her view on the pressing matter, pointing out claims like the Tarakan's abandoning them after Meleena's demise.

"It is risky, but if that is what you wish to do then I shall not stop you from doing so. I will only be able to support you." Tanya tilted her head down in respect.

"Things will only go wrong once I know where Shinnok's amulet is, and it will be in my grasp by then." (Y/n) stayed calm throughout her speech, a new element of their operation coming to mind. "What about our allies? Kano?"

Tanya lifted her head again, staring into the Princess's (e/c) eyes. "Kano abandoned us after Meleena's death, we have little options now."

"A shame," (Y/n) said. "He still could've had some use." (Y/n) sighed and looked up at the sky, the sun blazing down upon them harshly. "We should leave and plan this out more, we have the last of the layouts for all of this place."

Rain and Tanya nodded, everyone getting off the ground, the Princess and Tanya gripping the biceps of Rain. In a moment of being stuck in the cooling water, the three were taken from the sunburnt lands of the Outworld palace to the lands of the humid Outworld jungles.

"Thank you, Rain." (Y/n) kindly voiced before turning her head in the direction of the small encampment they had created, few Tarkatans wondering around. The princess paused and looked around. "I can't believe we are in such a predicament. From the times long ago, what happened?"

Rain nor Tanya have an answer to their princess, making the atmosphere change into and other worldly silence. The female sighed and continued on her way to a large tent in the middle of the encampment. Tanya followed behind the rightful ruler of Edenia, Rain trailing behind.

"Either way we have little resources and even less time to finish this war, Edenia is in trouble and we need to act soon."

Rain sighed at (y/n)'s words. "We already have some rags for you to wear, but finding a convincing story as to why you are in his palace in the first place."

(Y/n) slightly smirked to herself at the thought. "Kotal Kahn does want slaves correct? So when the Osh-Tekk arrive with slaves I could join my people. From there I could build a reputation in a way to receive a free visit to the Outworlder's Palace. I know it isn't a full proof plan, but there might not be another way to get into his Palace without being hidden in plain sight."

Tanya shifted around in her spot beside the Princess. "You are correct, this all is too close together to figure out a way. All I can say is to find Shinnok's amulet before they find out who you are."

"Do not worry my dear Edenians, I will not fail."

~~~

Osh-Tekk soldiers surrounded the slaves, the Princess hidden within her own people. When she first joined them, they were surprised, but seemed to quickly understand what was going to happen. Freedom was going to happen, and it was going to happen soon.

The Edenians made their way through the sandy streets, the Princess's usual golden and silver outfits to the brownish grey rags the slaves were given to wear. The only issue is that the female was far to fair and beautiful to completely blend in, and the dirt upon her face didn't hide it too well.

Luckily no Osh-Tekk seemed to show much interest in examining their prisoners faces, though there was the two closer members of the Kahn that examined each prisoner a little more in depth.

One man had a raspy yet smooth voice with some sort of hat and many weapon things upon his hips and back. He had shoulder length black hair and tan skin. Every once in a while said man would take on of the things on his hips and twirl them around quiet skillfully before placing them back. (Y/n) honestly found his dexterous handy work quiet impressive.

The other person, or person's one should say, was a large man like beast with a much smaller, child looking creature on his back. They had metallic armor and the smaller one had metal claws. They looked like a strong opponent together.

(Y/n)'s eyes worriedly gazed through the crowd of slaves and soldiers, the crowd coming nearer and nearer to the palace. All seemed to go in slow motion as the mass of new slaves were forced to kneel down in front of the palace stairwell.

Almost thunderous steps followed the kneeling, (y/n) glanced up in response to the sound. And there he was in all of his glory, the mighty Kotal Kahn. He glared down at the slaves as his closer companions moved to the front of the crowd. "Here they are." Voiced the gruffy man, once again twirling his weapon in his grasp.

Kotal Kahn's lips shifted to the side for a mere second before he made his way down to the slaves, his head held high and his headdress shinning in the sunlight. He stopped in front of a slave, examining them as if looking through their soul. He shook his head. "He will work on the construction." He spoke, a simple sentence with such a heavy weight on each word.

The man he spoke about squirmed and glanced around his fellow Edenians, finding and staring at the Princess with a horrified look. The Princess could see him swallow hard before being kicked in the face by an Osh-Tekk soldier. "Look in front of you." He growled and the whining Edenian below his feet.

Kotal Kahn stared at the beaten slave, following his gaze to the beautiful female kneeling down in rags. The emperor walked his way to the female, stopping in front of her much smaller form. "Who are you?" His deep voice rumbled throughout (y/n)'s being, making her body slightly shake. The princess knew he was intimidating, but it wasn't as horrifying than being up close and personal. "Answer me, Edenian scum."

'I-I am no scum.' Is what (y/n) truly wished to say, but her lousy plan wouldn't allow that. "My title is (f/n (fake name))."

Kotal Kahn lifted her chin with a strange blade, just enough to see into her (e/c) orbs. "And why was he staring at you?" The larger blue man motioned to the slave.

The princess gulped her saliva down her throat. "The Edenians are my dearest friends. They trust me as I trust them."

He lowly hummed to himself and turned his head to look at the other Edenians. "Their trust in you is useless. Servant."

Again Kotal Kahn moved to another, assigning the males construction and the few females as servants. It pained the princess to just sit down and watch all of this take place, but she bit her lips throughout the entirety of the whole visit.

The Osh-Tekk soldiers grasped everyone and took them to their corresponding places, the palace being just in reach of the princess.

~~~

The room was filthy and undeserving of Edenians, much less the rightful ruler of Edenia and Outworld. The room (y/n) was staying in wasn't the worst, yet it wasn't the best. It wasn't exactly large, but it had a bed and desk along with a small dresser. It was questionable to give a servant this type of room, and it was more unusual for her not to be sharing a room with another one of her people.

No Osh-Tekk has been around either to tell her to do anything, and it was honestly worrying to not be doing anything. Did he already know? If so, how?

The door opened to reveal and Osh-Tekk, he stood tall and moved to the side to allow free movement out the door. "There is a job for you to do."

(Y/n) nodded and followed the man, her head down while she listened closely to the footsteps throughout the halls. The two beings wondered for what seemed to be an eternity until she was met with the throne room. "Clean." The Osh-Tekk kicked behind the Princess's knee, knocking her to the ground right in front of Kotal Kahn. A wet sponge was thrown in front of the female.

Bitterly, she took the sponge and started her work, cleaning the stone. Though, where was the other servants? Were they even safe, or were they already slaughtered?

(Y/n) gulped a lump down her throat as she scrubbed harder against the cold stone. The feeling of the Kahn staring down her back more intense every passing second, and it scared her. (Y/n) had refused to be fearful of a lower power, but she knew something was wrong. Something was so wrong.

~~~

A week has passed since (y/n) has become a servant for the person she had sworn herself to kill. Rain and Tanya still haven't received any form of signal, nor has Shinnok's amulet shown itself. Time was becoming tighter and tighter, but no one has revealed her secret, so doing something soon would be ideal.

Princess (y/n) glanced out the window, it has been dark for several hours now. The (h/c) haired female slightly opened the door to her room, silence was being given. She crept out, making sure to shut the door behind her as she started her way down the hall in a bitter silence.

Throughout her search she saw very few guards, and the only issue was dodging the gaze of the large and small guards, the one with the metallic claws. And even though the two had more eyes too see her, she was just able to make it past them without too much of an issue.

(Y/n) now was in a strange hallway, one with a large door at the end of it, was this where it was stored? Joyfully and almost dashing, she hurriedly made her way to the large doors, her shoeless feet making the lightest of noises in her hurried attempt to find the amulet.

As the doors grazed the Princess's fingers a shiver ran up her spine, it must be from the power of the amulet, what else could it be from? She slightly opened the doors, entered and closed them behind her ever so softly. A small smile graced her lips as she rested her head against the doors.

Strong arms wrapped around (y/n)'s waist, squeezing tight enough to keep her in place, but that wasn't needed, for she was frozen in fear. "Now, Princess (y/n), why might you be here?" The deep voice bellowed through her head.

Something was caught in her throat, something stiff and rigid.

"And why can't you speak? Did I surprise you so suddenly?"

"H-how? How did-did you know?!" A sudden feeling washed over the Princess, and struggling became top priority. (Y/n) thrashed and whipped around in his iron grip.

"Ah, don't you remember the tournament created by Shao Kahn, to take over Edenia all those years ago? Well I was fighting in it, at the time I was the General of the Osh-Tekk army and fighting in the tournament was something I was told to do. That is when I met you, a beautiful Princess, the eldest daughter of Sindel. I fought you, and since then I have become infatuated with you. And you just decided to crawl into my arms, more than once." His breath became prominent upon her ear lobe, making her shiver all the more. "How lucky of a god I must be."

"Ko'atal?" Princess (y/n) glanced over her shoulder to meet Kotal Kahn's turquoise orbs, a lustful glare stuck inside them.

"So you do remember, good, then you remember what I did."

~~~

Edenia was stuck in a time of fear, Shao Kahn had made his way to a throne like chair on the opposite side of a coliseum, and the Queen and King of Edenia had sat on the opposite side, a worried look on their faces. "Mother, father, I will not fail this trial."

"I know you will, (y/n), all I can say is to take your challenger down at all costs."

"Yes mother." (Y/n) bowed at Sindel, giving her her respects before walking to the balcony of the colosseum, the gravel decorating the grounds below.

The horns bellowed below, telling all to look into the pits as the challengers approach. (Y/n) glanced at her mother, watching her nod, and then turned to descend into the pit.

Her golden and silver dress flowing behind her, the Princess's gorgeous (h/c) following her dress. A chest plate, shoulder pads, knee pads, and gauntlets covered her being to protect her from attacks.

"I am Princess (y/n) of Edenia," She paused and listened to the hushing crowd. "Bring your first challenger Shao Kahn!"

Yes, she would be fighting two people to protect Edenia, and it would be the most important fights of her life.

Shao Kahn scoffed and leaned to someone beside him, a pale and large man with inky black hair and skull armor. From below she could vividly see his nose piercings and his bloody eyes. The two above exchanged unknown words before departing, the man with the inky black hair leaving the emperor with the skull mask.

The man with the inky black hair showed himself as the newest challenger to the princess, his strength being shown through his height and muscle. "I am Ko'atal, General of the Osh-Tekk army, and I am your challenger!"

"So be it, Ko'atal, meet your demise!"

"I do not think so." Ko'atal was the first to make an attack, cutting his hand in the process for what seemed to be more power.

(Y/n) smirked to herself, finding his growth in power to be useless against someone of a high range. Golden orbs fumed in her hands as her body slowly started to float above the rough gravel. She aimed the orbs at Ko'atal and fired four of them, the man dodging them with speed.

The princess scoffed and flew away as he kept up his pace and skillfully dodging her attacks, coming a little too close on some of them. She flew above and over Ko'atal so he couldn't upper cut her jaw and quickly end this fight. Instead of him attacking her, she used her palm to hit his nose and then his throat. Accidentally forgetting the nose piercing, a long and jagged cut was found all the way down her palm, but she ignored it.

The fight kept going for a while, the Princess being kept on her toes as Ko'atal kept his advances at maximum. Soon he had grabbed her forearm, taking her down in a swift moment and a even more swift upper cut to the stomach. He tore out his strange blade and gave (y/n) multiple cuts upon her shoulders.

(Y/n) was pulled and slammed down harshly onto the gravel. "A shame a flower like you must be cut."

"Your compliments are given to deaf ears, Ko'atal." She head butted the man, yet it seemed to be ineffective against his raw strength. The two grappled for a small bit, Ko'atal having the upper hand, he landed on top of her and punched her square in the jaw. The princess growled and screeched in his ear, not as powerful as Sindel's screams, but still louder than a normal Edenian's.

Ko'atal winced, being thrown off onto the ground beside the princess. This was her chance, she cradled his hips with her thighs and summoned orbs for the last time. "We might meet again another time, Ko'atal." (Y/n) commented with a smirk before using her orbs to knock her challenger.

In doing so, she could almost feel the rage seething out from under Shao Kahn's mask. (Y/n) stood up and moved from Ko'atal's unconscious body. "Bring me your next challenger, Shao Kahn!"

From that point Ko'atal was taken by Baraka and a reptilian creature known ironically as Reptile. Soon the next challenger approached, a prince named Goro, and their fight ended in a similar way, with (y/n) winning.

Not too long after did everyone part their own ways, Shao Kahn staying in a room in the Edenian palace for simplicity reasons. His champions and fighters also staying somewhere in the palace as well.

Ko'atal recovered from the sudden blast of energy, luckily it wasn't as damaging blow, it seemed the blow wasn't intended to kill him.

As he walked around the palace, making his way to Gods know where, he stumbled upon the view of a beautiful Edenian princess in the gardens. She didn't notice him, and he found that quite alluring, and seeing her golden and silver dress gleam in the sunlight along with her perfect (s/c) skin, she was stunning to simply put it.

This is when a strange feeling washed over him, a feeling of lust for not just her body, but her mind as well. He was obsessed.

~~~

His hands slithered down her waist, his right hand taking a hold of the scared palm. "I knew it from the beginning, from the scars that matched the ones I gave you all those years ago, to your facial structure I've memorized. Now," He took her hand and twisted her body around to face him, his bare chest connecting with her dainty hands.

A crazed look entered his eyes as he smiled widely. "Marry me."

"Wh-What?!" (Y/n) attempted to push him away, but even when he was weaker back then she wouldn't be able to push away. "No! No, you helped take away and ruin Edenia! I will never marry you!"

Kotal Kahn grind his teeth together in anger. His voice echoed throughout his chambers in a thunderous way, mimicking the whip from a week ago. "That was not a request."

~~~

Rain and Tanya were found not too long after the forced marrying of Princess (y/n) and Kotal Kahn. The princess begged for their lives, but they were executed with no mercy. Kotal Kahn still is in possession of Shinnok's amulet and his power grows with every passing day and with each passing day Princess (y/n) becomes more and more powerless.

Princess (y/n) was never able to free herself from his memory.

#Yandere Mortal Kombat #Yandere mk #Yandere kotal Kahn #Yandere kahn #Yandere ko’atal #Yandere kotal kahn x reader #Yandere Mortal Kombat x reader

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45paperplates · 3 years

Text

More about Olivia Rodrigo: On her Lyrics

Starting some time in 2018 or maybe a little earlier, Olivia Rodrigo began to play original songs, or more often pieces of songs, one verse and a chorus, apparently unfinished, for her followers on Instagram Live. She was about fifteen at the time, although one of the more complete songs (“Naive Girl”) can be confirmed to date back to 2014 or 2015, when she was twelve years old. I began to listen to these songs, all but one of which are available to hear conveniently compiled into a single twenty-five minute Youtube video, when my appetite for her music was only beginning to grow to its present size, after I had listened to the album on repeat for a good three or four days straight. They are the kind of thing only obsessive fans can really gush over, something akin to Bob Dylan’s early Minnesota Hotel Tape from 1961: badly recorded and casually created by a young artist who never intended them to be anything more than they are, a fun and easy way to show off their talent at a time when a wellspring of inspiration was already pouring forth with no better available outlet.

youtube

These little pieces, however, establish finally for sure what a major label pop debut with other ambitions, no matter how special it may be, can only hint at, which is that something within her is driving a preternatural attention for detail, currently unmatched in it’s free naturalism, imaginative power, and consistency, only possibly consistent as a result of its being deeply possessed and long established, despite her youth. I have already touched on what I think that something may be in my first post about her. But whatever it is, it is immediately apparent in her performances here, an instinct that had already cemented deeply considered vocalization as her default, as a simple creative necessity, although a few of the earliest recordings have added even another layer of Broadway-like drama that has since been stripped away, I am guessing as a result of the nascent growth of some level of creative confidence.

Songwriting, then, is to some degree shown to be a third result of that engrained ability, after said holistic sincerity and its resultant vocal intuition, and yet a good chunk of the songs are lyrically composed as well with a just as holistically sincere and intuitive affect, presenting very well-understood conundrums, pared down to koan-like solids one would think by years of rumination. A few are, I would dare to say, more tightly constructed and figuratively multivalent than the songs on her album, many of which share their succinctness but not the violently prismatic irony that seems to be able to overpower the sincere creative drive that gave it life in its brightest inspired flashes. “drivers license” in fact excels by flattening that figurative prism into a simpler and more benign shape, allowing the casual listener to both easily understand and retain some wisp of hope in the end, even if it is only implied.

I would not be so stupid as to claim that Olivia intended these best-written of her unreleased bedroom productions to be metaphysical poems somehow toeing the line between classical balance and baroque terror in their meditation on the reciprocal quality of human sin. That would be silly, not because I don’t think a teenager is capable of such a thing (teenagers have, in fact, always been capable of making high art) but because these few songs focus on themes common to all of her songs: teenage insecurity, uncontrollable jealousy, and betrayal both social and self-inflicted. The depth of her imagery comes instead, I think, from an intuitive understanding of where the cultural meat of an issue lies, and when she writes a song her drive craves and so aims for power and gets rid of whatever there is that lacks it. Perhaps working with a co-writer somewhat slows that drive.

youtube

“Pretender” is a song about being “fake” and how it works both outwardly and internally. It’s personification, the “pretender” of the title, is accused, envied, pitied, and ultimately, understood. It moves through four key lines.

Pointing her finger at this automaton, about whom she alone knows the truth, Olivia first wishes vindictively,

If only they knew what I knew.

But then, now envious of the figure, she prays,

I wish I knew what you knew.

Maybe as a result of these two contradictory desires, she is forced to admit with regret that the pretender can only be a fantastic image rather than a full person, a strawman created by her mind to both embody her sublimated desire and reflexively maintain her own superiority when it goes unfulfilled:

I created you to be plastic and deadly.

Finally, in a relentlessly logical conclusion, she must admit, as the construction falls to pieces, that this is obviously all about herself:

I created you to hide my own envy, ... Maybe I’m a pretender like you.

With her catalog in mind, the canonical interpretation is pretty obvious. The pretender is someone who is perfect and happy and Olivia is jealous of that. By the guilt left in the wake of her accusation, she realizes, indeed it should have been quite apparent from the start, that perhaps the person who seems to be happy is actually not happy. She perceives by juxtaposition that maybe others see her, Olivia, the same way, and in a sinking conclusion, perfect happiness, the other’s and hers as well, is shown to be only truly possible in image and never in the fullness of experience. It is a song about the difficult process of empathy and its bitter personal rewards. This interpretation prevails in Youtube comments, specifically in reference to her other songs about the jealousy encouraged by social media. “I’m happy for them, but then again, I’m not.” Maybe Olivia’s own fun and carefree public-facing presence is just as false?

The genius behind this songwriting, however, is that this other person does not need to exist for the song’s structure to function. This is by design, no doubt; she could very well be speaking only to herself the entire time. If Olivia is pretending too, as the final line suggests, then why could she not have been the pretender all along? Indeed, how else could Olivia be the only one who knows “the truth” about this figure in the first place? A personal struggle with identity, that is the meat of it all.

Her first wish for the pretender’s exposure is based in personal remorse, for lying to the world about who she really is. That her own social facade might be justly but violently forced open to expose the truth would be a painful but cathartic release. She makes her second wish as she recoils in the face of such an embarrassing prospect, hoping against reason that maybe it’s somehow all avoidable, that by abandoning any loyalty to the truth and to herself altogether she might in fact achieve the paradise that the pretender affects, soulless but free of the pain of having a soul too. Third is the realization that this is evil, that her desire is sinful, both grotesque and inhuman (“plastic”), and cruel (“deadly”). Fourth and last she can no longer pretend that her original finger-pointing isn't itself the result of this same worldly desire, as narcissistic an attempt at personal redemption as the outward facade is itself. Insecurity and jealousy, no matter how embarrassing or ugly, no more compose an understanding of identity than any more knowingly-constructed and performative self-image, and are just as self-serving in their own twisted way.

So in this song she is deconstructing herself, from outward composure to cryptic narcissism, shattering layer after layer in an alarmingly accelerating regression. Unfortunately, all that is left in the end is what she has done after what she is—performatively, emotionally, intuitively—has fallen away, specifically the intended result of the accusation she threw at the pretender to begin it all: once again, guilt. What else but guilt is exposed now to be the substance left of the human individual? For Olivia, deep down at least, guilt is always the together creator and eraser of human pleasure, the identity that is desire, and the only thing that fears the emptiness that would be left without it.

That a teenager could write such a penetratingly self-critical work is of course impressive, but the fact that guilt, desire, pleasure, happiness, identity, and fear are shown ultimately to be one and the same generative source is far more exciting. Here she exposes the potential versatility of her created and creative ability, that in maturity this raw power without singular definition could be manipulated into many other things completely new, things only Olivia and not I can imagine now.

#Olivia Rodrigo #sour #drivers license #pretender #hsmtmts #bootlegs #bob dylan #metaphysics #john donne #existentialism #pop music #catholic guilt #taylor swift #lorde #billie eilish

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dear-yandere · 4 years

Text

succor.

yandere! jotaro kujo 3. major spoilers for stardust crusaders (part 3). word count: 2,600+. tw: bullying, implied depression, drowning, death, gore, and grief.

art credit: ロク.

He carries himself with poise, an assurity few could ever possess. He is the personification of perfect — alas, a man who appears perfect, like a statue which leaves many in awe, a statue whose marble insides have begun to slowly erode, a statue who’s already begun falling apart. There exists not a soul who can fix him, no sculptor skilled enough, no human kind enough to fix his flaws before anyone else can catch on; Jotaro Kujo is his own sculptor, and he’s forgotten how to mend his broken pieces.

For as long as he’s known, he’s been a soldier. A boy soldier, who bears the weight of the world atop shoulders of steel, shoulders which shake and tremble when no one is looking. He is a soldier without a commander, a soldier without a purpose, and he was content with that. But he is a soldier who’s fought a battle meant for ten thousand men, a battle which has long ended, a battle which still plagues him; he is a soldier who’s fought god and he is only seventeen.

When did it begin, he wonders? When did his marble bones and stone veins start to crack? Was it that day? Becaues he remembers being bullied. He remembers taking each insult, like poison-laced daggers, and thinking nothing of it. He remembers the wrinkles, the eye bags, the grey hairs which had started to pepper his mother’s face at around the same time. He remembers the questions, the sobbing, her desperate pleas, her hesitant knocks on his bedroom door. He remembers her somehow finding out, remembers her standing up for him, one day, in the school yards. And he remembers his bullies trying to hurt her, too.

He remembers nearly killing them.

It was like the flip of a switch, how quickly he changed. Mom became mother, bitch, nuisance. She can’t understand how he felt in those moments — she couldn’t — because until the day he dies, he won’t let her. Keep her at arm’s length, don’t let her in. No one can know, no one can get close — they’ll just get hurt, too. That’s the funny thing about love: it hurts. To feel loved is wonderful, to be loved is tragic, damning, dangerous. He is a catalyst for disaster, destruction, danger, and everything in between.

Death loves him, and love has never felt so lonely.

He lost a friend that day. Metal had bent around his body like silken sheets, water had sod his clothing without care; if his body hadn’t already run cold, the water would’ve made him sick. He would’ve smiled and laughed it off with his dear friend, would’ve said his injuries are no big deal. He can still see, can still move, can still dream.

If he’d lived.

He lost a friend that day, the only one he’d ever had.

And then there is you.

You are no different from the rest. Just another body to protect, another set of eyes he must keep from prying. Death loves him, and he’d been foolish enough to fall in love; funny how easily it happened, really. Because when you look at him, he feels as if he’s baring his all. All his insecurities and worries, all the times he’s wanted to break down and cry. It’s a feeling he hates, detests, but it’s something new, something unexpected, something needed. You are not those women who look at him with indignant curiosity. You are not his mother who looks at him with worry. You are not his grandfather nor his dead best friend; you are you, and somehow, you are everything he’s needed.

Love is a funny thing, he recalls, and that thought is enough to clear the darkness around him. It’s calming, at first. The nightmare is over and he must be waking up. Your soothing voice will greet him, as it always does; you’ll hug him, cradle him like a child, and he won’t push you away. But you don’t. You shine, so terribly bright that he has to look away for a moment. There’s warmth, comfort, safety in your direction, but he doesn’t walk forward. He doesn’t deserve it.

Not him. Not the man who let his friends die.

Jotaro, a dark, playful voice begins, echoing from the depths of nowhere. It’s familiar; far too knowing, far too cunning, far too demonic. Jotaro feels his mind start to unravel like loose threads, and the voice feeds off this, like a parasite. If you love your friends and family so much, why do you never tell them?

“What do you want?” Jotaro barks at nothing and turns toward the dark, turns away from you. Secretly, Jotaro has always been scared of the dark, but right now it was oddly welcoming. The dull beat of that voice, distorted and tinny, still seemed clear, pristine, ethereal. As if the voice had hands which he could not see, they wrapped around his neck like a noose and pulled. Gravity itself seemed to pull at his neck, pushing him further and further into the unforgiving abyss of the darkness as if swallowing him whole.

Why is he here?

Just as his back hits the waters, the sudden impact knocks the oxygen out of his lungs within a second, before he’s plunged right beneath the surface. His eyes are open, even as salt-water pierced and burned; he was certain before, but this is too real to be a dream. It it weren’t for the fact that he could’ve perished any moment now, the sight before him would’ve actually been beautiful. Nothing but a color palette of deep sea blue clouded his peripheral vision with colors that were excruciatingly breath-taking in real life.

But he isn’t deceived.

I want to wrap my brain around that head of yours, Jotaro. So, enlighten me... The disembodied voice mocks, feeling like blood rushing against his the insides of his head. It’s closer this time, over his shoulder, next to his ear, and there’s a familiarity to its tone — a familiarity he doesn’t want to acknowledge just yet. Surely telling them you care is easier than breaking your body over and over again.

Jotaro chews on the question with a hint of unmistakable disgust before spiting it out. He hears the voice laugh that mocking song once again, and the light shining from above almost feels like they’re mocking his every movement, too. They watch his arm shoot upwards, silently and slowly for their help — and they laughed. The gears in his brain start turning, willing his limbs to work as legs weakly kicked up in desperate search for air. Realization soon beats itself into his slowly-drowning lungs, and he’s left to face questions that no one but he knows the answers to.

How did he get here? Is he awake? Is he alive?

Answer me, little mortal. We haven’t got all night. The voice goads, and it feels like sharp needles have stuffed themselves into the canals of his ears. Jotaro hisses, and the voice seems content with the response, at the least. Or, perhaps you’d prefer to drown? What a peculiar way for a marine biologist to go, but humans never cease to amaze me.

Jotaro struggles to answer the voice which claims to be inhuman, but dark waters only drain into his mouth like rapids. Time wasn’t even on his mind at this point, but he couldn’t help but wonder how long he’s been underwater. The ocean seemed to pin his legs and arms into icicles, keeping them from thrashing everywhere. Soon, his attempts on fighting for oxygen were getting much more pathetic — much weaker with each kick.

‘Is this how I die?’ He thinks, chuckling at the irony. The feeling of agreeing with the voice is bitter, but its words are not wrong. To think he’d die in the embrace of something he’s spent his life researching. And even so, he wastes no time in reaching a conclusion: ‘Still not a bad way to go.’

Not that he'd been holding onto hope in the first place, but witnessing the light stray further from his grasp was anything but welcoming. It’s clear that his mind and body were slowly starting to lose motivation in fighting against fate. His fate.

And right now, he’s drawing nearer to the finish line.

His limbs had eventually stopped responding and allowed gravity to drag his body into the never ending abyss he’d always marveled at when he’d been alive. And despite condemning himself to his fate, the hopelessness seethed in gradually. Human nature, he concluded; to want what you cannot have is human nature. He knows that better than most.

Once his air supply ran tight, his mouth instinctively opened up once again, allowing water to flow in through his nostrils and throat. Every 'breath’ made him choke on the saltiness of the ocean waters, lungs struggling to hang on as the water slowly crushed its cage from inside and out. Barely even able to hear his own thoughts, he assumed his eardrums burst from the insane depths he was being pulled into. His eyelids grew heavy like boulders and finally drooped; he had already succumbed to the thought of death — he couldn’t even cry in anguish or relief, but perhaps the downpour above the waters was crying for him instead. The thought was comforting, to know that someone, some thing would mourn his death.

His back hits the ocean floor like a sunken ship, and he believes he’s dead until the voice speaks again: Have you had enough time to think, little mortal? Its words are scathing, and by far the last thing he wants to hear on his death bed, but with it, came air. It seemed an impossible feat at the bottom of an ocean no human has visited before, but the air is crisp and fresh. Jotaro drinks it up, gulping it down in excess, reveling at how it fills his lungs with life. The water he’d inhaled and drunk doesn’t even seem to exist, at the moment, but he hasn’t the state of mind to dwell on that.

“Where am I?” He chokes out, still tasting the bitter tang of salt against the back of his throat. The voice seems to echo around him, and he finally realizes that he is still on the ocean floor. Sea creatures he’s never seen flit around him, and despite the stark absence of any light, he can see them clear as day.

Only you know that. The voices hums, creating a vibrato in the seawaters, a sound that seems to manifest into arms and once again coil around Jotaro’s neck, like a noose. He wants to scream and thrash and fight, but the comforting presence of Star Platinum within his core is... vacant.

I shall repeat myself. If you love your friends and family so much, why do you never tell them? The question seems out of place at the bottom of an ocean filled with light and air, but the entity leaves no room for Jotaro to dwell. The heavy stench of iron is immediately recognizable, and Jotaro realizes there’s a gash in his chest. Pale fingers, topped with blackened fingernails which have grown awfully too long, held his intestines away from his torso, the flesh coiled tightly around the hands of a man he once knew.

A man who should be dead.

And yet, here he is. And yet, there is no pain.

“Because...” The words slip past his lips before he knows how to finish. Because what? Because he’s an asshole who can’t put his feelings into words? Because he’s a fool who deserves to suffer alone? Because...

“Because I’m afraid.”

The voice cackles, creating distortions in the sand bed and deep sea water, and yet he could recognize it as clear as day. DIO.

Oh? Is that so? DIO runs a tongue over his lips, deciding to humor his little plaything. Then, hypothetically, if you do tell them you love them, what are you so afraid will happen?

Jotaro doesn’t respond.

I’m waiting.

“...I don’t know.”

Liar. DIO bites and lightly pressing a claw-like fingernail into Jotaro’s jugular. It’s not polite to lie.

“I...” The pool of blood at his feet is disorienting, vivid and real despite the darkness around him. “It’s not that I don’t want to trust them, I...” He reaches out to cup the hand still jutting from his stomach. How odd it is to see such a horrific sight and feel no pain; and it all clicks into place. Jotaro chokes up for a brief moment, hoping a reply will make this all end. “...It’s dangerous to show you care. If they knew, and if my enemies knew how important they are to me, then...”

This isn’t real. None of this is real. How many times has he had this nightmare? And how many times has he imagined just that — the corpses of his loved ones plastered along the streets? The screams that won’t stop? The look of fear and hope on their faces?

That hasn’t happened, yet, and yet he faults himself: how can he be so weak?

There we go. DIO clicks his tongue and gently strokes his great grand-nephew’s hairs — something he no doubt imagines to be an affectionate pat. Not so hard, is it? Jotaro nods, too weak to stand up for himself. This nightmare never ends. You’re afraid of being too vulnerable. DIO coos and twists his blood-covered arm, deepending Jotaro’s unreal wound. You’re afraid of being too... weak.

The ghost’s words always sting, but this nightmare has become so commonplace, so normal — as easy as breathing, despite the waters around him — that Jotaro hasn’t the strength to feel anger. It’s not like DIO is wrong. He is afraid, he is weak, and above all, he’s afaraid of being weak.

But, how curious it is, little mortal. Hasn’t anyone ever told you— the voice begins to chastise, but is cut off; its words don’t reach his ears. Rather, there’s a soothing scent, with familiar aromas he can’t quite place. But the serenity is short lived. The air Jotaro seemed to be breathing dissipates, and he’s drowning again. His throat burns as if a thousand of needles were piercing it all at the same time, chest clenching itself suffocatingly tight; it’s hell all over again. He couldn’t help but feel pathetic for not acting sooner, especially when the exit was right in front of him, even if it wasn’t anywhere near his reach. Now that chance was thrown carelessly out the window, with no means on returning back to his grasp—

And his sinks.

As he struggled to keep himself afloat and conscious, black spots started to paint his vision one by one, and that’s when time was obviously running out. His eyelids give up —

And then he wakes up.

There’s a gentle, shaking motion, like a boat — as if he’s being cradled and soothed like he had been as a child. He can’t place it immediately, but you’re whispering soft little assurances into his ear, brushing strands of ebony hair which had plastered itself to wet skin. He realizes that the sweet scent from before is you. He can’t discern your words, not fully, not over the sound of blood rushing to his ears. If your arms weren’t wrapped around him a like a safety net, he’d still think he’s drowning, dying; but, the glimpses of words he’d catch every so often were enough to comfort him. You assure him that he’s still very much alive, that he’s awake, that nothing can hurt him, that it was all a nightmare.

It was just a nightmare.

Hasn’t anyone ever told you? The undead voice chimes, but your voice, clear as day, replaces its mocking tone, and Jotaro melts. He gazes upwards, into your eyes which hold the moon and all its stars and he suddenly remembers that wishes are made upon them.

“It’s okay to be weak, Jotaro.”

inspired by this.

#jotaro kujo x reader #kujo jotaro x reader #jotaro kujo #jojo's bizare adventure #jojo's bizarre adventure x reader #jjba x reader #jjba imagines #jjba scenario #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo no kimyō na bōken #diamond is unbreakable #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere #yandere scenario #yandere imagines #*oneshot #not yandere

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demonfox38 · 4 years

Text

Completed - Baba is You

I can't believe this is the first game I've perfected on Steam.

Like, I don't like achievement systems in video games, okay? I prefer to set my own goals. Sure, there are some achievements that are interesting, like learning to use a certain mechanic in a cool or efficient manner, visiting hidden rooms, or even running around with nothing but my character's default busted sword just to prove a point. Mostly, I just want to finish them. I don't go jumping through flaming hoops because I want people to think I'm cool. I'm from Iowa. I'm critically uncool by design.

If a game is good, I will put in the extra work. Like, getting 100% souls in "Castlevania: Aria of Souls" and 200.6% map completion in "Castlevania: Symphony of the Night" is now just routine for me. With "Baba is You"? Well, circumstances are just a teeny bit different.

"Baba is You" is a puzzle game from independent developer Arvi Teikari. Your primary goal in the game is to create statements out of nouns, verbs, and conditions and use those generated rules to complete levels. It's basically catnip to programmers. These puzzles are packaged in cute, scribbly animations and gentle music. Ultimately, its soft presentation is the figurative sheep's clothing under which the wolf of this game lives, dragging its players through increasingly more complex situations, sitting there, laughing, its whole world wiggling in its adolescent mockery of you and your sluggish brain.

You're not always even Baba. I know. The absolute betrayal.

I originally saw this game being streamed back in 2019. A frustrating feeling overtook me as I watched the player work through the puzzles. I could feel myself solving them before she could, and it was making me itch. I didn't want to have any more spoiled without giving it a shot myself, so I purchased the game, put in a few hours, and then dropped it for two years. Hell, the major reason I came back to it was that I was babysitting my mom's very needy poodle, and I was more or less trapped on the couch with her during her entire stay. Had to do something. So, I decided this was it.

"Baba is You" really is the ultimate "Yeah, I'll get back to this" game. You know what I mean? There's always a handful of games that you make a little headway into, and then you think, "Yeah, I'll get back to this" and then drop it. I try not to be this way. Video games are expensive, and I want to get as much value as I can out of them. But man, does this game get overwhelming.

I mean, the TAS for a 100% run is currently around an hour and forty-five minutes. That's for 226 puzzles. That is a lot.

Granted, you don't have to finish every puzzle if you don't want to. The game can let you slide free with your first ending after completing only three subworlds on the main map. You know how many people get to that first ending? Like, we're talking maybe getting through 3 hours of gameplay or so. As of this posting, it's around 7.8% of all players on Steam. In comparison, here are first time ending numbers from other games I own on Steam:

"Bloodstained: Curse of the Moon" – 38% (Cleave the Moon)

"Trine" – 29.6% (Completed!)

"Dust: An Elysian Tale" – 23.9% (…And the Dust Settles)

"Fez" – 14.7% (Kill Screen)

"Psychonauts" – 13.2% (I Thought That Was Unbeatable!)

"Typing of the Dead" – 12.9% (Experimental Fiction)

"Final Fantasy VII" – 9.4% (End of Game)

That's right. From a percentage point of view, more players will put 80 hours into a 20+ year old RPG than 3 hours in this game. So, what's up with that?

At first, I wasn't struggling terribly with the game. I was making a pretty steady clip through it, stopping occasionally to check out the game's wiki. (BTW—view that on a laptop browser, not a mobile one. The background makes it hard to read some of the verbs and conditions.) My first tap-out in 2019 happened around the "Forest of Fall" block, when the game started introducing teleporting puzzles. My second brain-snap happened about 18 hours in the game when I accidentally created the phrase "Level is Key" in the puzzle "Fragile Existence," and then I realized that I could both create this level as Baba and had to create another level as a flag to win the overworld map.

And then there was a submap.

And another.

Holy crap, my brain was not ready for the mess that was Depths and Meta.

At one point, I stopped myself and reviewed why I was overcome with despair at my own stupidity. A part of it is yes, the game looks very cute, and the language used in the puzzles is very simple. So, when you don't get it, it's like saying you don't get "Sesame Street." And hey, maybe you wouldn't if it was in Mandarin and you only speak English. But, I did want to beat myself up for my sluggish responses and my growing feeling of helplessness. Why couldn't I beat the simple sheep game for babies? Was I really that stupid?

I think it helped to know what troubles I had my playthrough harder. This included:

Using text to push objects past barriers. (Yes, text exists in the world, and unless it's floating, you can use that text to move objects around. It's like hitting a car with a stop sign.)

Assuming attributes on an object that weren't actually assigned (i.e., assuming a door was locked or a wall would prevent me from moving through it, even if that wasn't the case.)

Manipulating text to double-layer nouns or break up commands by wedging an inactive/non-solid object in them. (See: Prison.)

Realizing that "you" doesn't always have to go to a certain destination. Sometimes, "you" just need to have something move over there or push something into where you want to go.

Remembering to use the "Wait" button to let moving objects finish their paths.

"Defeat" is a condition that applies only to "you", not objects in your possession. (They may instead be destroyed by "Sink").

Some rules need to be created and destroyed in the same turn.

Things that move on their own can be used to carry commands through obstacles.

Sometimes, you've just got to count your steps when you're taking an action and see if you can reduce them.

And granted, despite my stupidity, there were some puzzles that really clicked! I particularly enjoyed using the "Word" condition, as it allowed for me to treat both words and objects as a noun to make assignments. There were also times where I had to spell out the commands I wanted from letters left on the map. Fun! Natural! And hell, who doesn't enjoy a good block pushing puzzle, now and again? Super easy. Makes sense. Key is push, door is open. Of course!

Ass is Hot! Of course! (Wait, that wasn’t the solution...)

I tended to lock up more when the "Defeat" piece was on screen. I mean, you can always undo your mistakes, and there's no life limit or anything like that. But, hearing your player character go splat when you mess up is flinch-worthy. Additionally, I hated having to build complex paths for objects to follow. Like, screw the entirety of Adventurers. Also, learning what the "Lonely" condition meant felt very unnatural. It was hard to even tell why I was splatting until I read up on what it meant.

Interestingly, changing the language of the game only affects the menu's language, not the game itself. (I was wondering if adding a layer of comprehension to objects would stop me from auto-assigning properties to them or not. Makes sense that it's all in English, considering the "form objects from letters" puzzles.)

I felt bad when I finally gave up on putting effort into solving the puzzles on my own. I did. But, I was also 18 hours deep into my file in a single week, and I wanted to get back to my other hobbies. I felt that if I gave up on "Baba is You" again, I wouldn't finish it ever. And then, those 18 hours truly would be wasted. Also, I felt sick that only 7.8% of people had gotten to the first ending screen. The game isn't bad! It's hard, but not bad! I wanted to at least give it enough dignity to finish it off, even if I was more or less reading what I needed to build with one eyeball and building it with the other.

And hell. Given all of the version differences of this game and the amount of time that has passed since its release, it is a teeny bit YouTube proof. Not completely invulnerable, but I did catch a difference or two here and there. And it's not like the wiki's the clearest with what you need to do, even when they're telling you exactly what to do. You've got to mind your space with your words. At the very least, don't push anything aside or wreck it until you absolutely must.

I can't emphasize how much I felt bad about giving up. I mean, it's one thing to look at guides for other game types. You can get knowledge on how to beat a boss or level, but you've physically got to develop the skills needed to vault through that goal. With puzzle games, knowledge is 99% of what you need to accomplish your task. The rest is just putting in the solution as elegantly as possible.

92.2% of players didn't bother to do even that.

I won't pretend to say I know enough about puzzles to make an excellent puzzle game. However, I do think brevity would have helped this game. Like, think of puzzle games people like. "Tetris," right? Even a long game of "Tetris 64" lasts me a couple of hours at most. "Portal"? That's a handful of hours supported by plot and fun dialogue. So is the sequel. "Panel de Pon" / "Tetris Attack" / "Puyo Puyo"? Those are like "Street Fighter" arcade campaigns. Like, 15-20 minutes. To have a puzzle game go on for hours and hours without any character motivation or plot in sight? Yeah. That's going to burn a lot of people out.

Like, this game could have just the over world, a single hidden world, and then the Center portion, and that would have been more than enough. And then you know what could have been done with the rest of the puzzles? Put them in a new game! "Baba is More!" Bam! A second game, now with extra "Inception"-styled mind screws! Twice the money earned! (Yeah, okay. This plan might stink of capitalism.)

Making 226 puzzles is impressive. However, brevity is the soul of wit. Sometimes, design can be contradictory like that.

But, its achievements? Perfectly laid out. Truly finishing the game is likely to net you everything. I only had to put in a couple of hours after the true ending, and really, only fifteen minutes of that was solving the puzzles. The rest was just finding what I had missed. (I've heard rumors that "Baba is Baba" is bugged, but I think you just need to look up how to get the Level is Win solution in Meta figured out. The rest is elbow grease.)

I don't know if I can recommend this game. Again, having a case of the bad feels over that statement, especially since it seems like the developer has his heart in the right place. I'm hesitant to recommend this because when I was playing it, I had a migraine that lasted three days straight. Granted, there were possibly some external factors to why I had that. A fat polar vortex. Stress from work. Some hormonal influences. Not enough caffeine or water. Just generally living in the United States in the early 2020s. Plenty of things to crush my skull. I don't think it's in good taste to recommend something that will cause others physical pain. I mean, I'm used to games cracking my hands, but that's not exactly healthy behavior. I certainly wouldn't want to give someone an epileptic attack. Why would I want to drive a nail through their skulls, either?

I do think the game is solidly designed. It's a smart little cookie. But, it is unintentionally discouraging to get through, especially if you feel like you can't ask for help. Like getting a clue or an explanation is cheating.

Look. Try. Try hard. Be as honest and earnest as you can be. Just don't expect to do everything in your life alone, okay? I mean, there are times you've got to get an external perspective. I frequently had to crash after school with mathematics teachers and badger professors to explain topics outside of class. You think I was going to come up with how there are different kinds of infinities on my own? Hell no. I'm not creative in terms of mathematical proofs. But, I sure as hell can explain how different infinities work now! Even post-schooling, I still research topics, particularly when building or fixing things. I wouldn't have learned half of the things I've learned about maintaining game cartridges or building dollhouses without suggestions from professionals and enthusiasts. It's just part of life. You ask for help so you don't burn resources—especially something as valuable as time!

#post game evaluation #baba is you #demon is purge

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recommendedlisten · 4 years

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A couple years back, Recommended Listen introduced an appendex to its annual Best of albums list with a focus on all of the darker, heavier music it wanted to recommend from over the course of the year, because let's face it: Between the polarities of indie rock and poptimism, sometimes the loudest sounds don't get a fair shake on year-end coverage. It took last year off to focus on rounding up the decade's best albums instead, but it's back in 2020 to highlight the best albums in the realms of hardcore, punk, metal, experimental noise, even hip-hop, and beyond. Given the year it has been, the context of what constitutes a heavy listen has very much taken on a totally different meaning, but at the same time, has made these sounds all the more wild. Here's to the albums of Heavy '20...

Backxwash - God Has Nothing to Do With This Leave Him Out of It [Self-released]

God Has Nothing to Do With This Leave Him Out of It challenges the notion that hip-hop -- especially the kind that is executed as masterfully in its artform and intentionally as that created from the caverns of Backxwash’s lost soul -- can’t be heavy music, too. The breakthrough album from the self-made, self-produced Montreal-by-way-of-Zambia artist is raw in texture and a carnal mean-mugging in its energy just like the unapologetic eye of its creator. The listen does not repent on the brooding weight of Backxwash’s confessional rhymes and the beat soundscape -- a playground built from pieces of the goth, trap, and industrial underworlds -- she sets them along is a 22-minute thriller through damnation.

clearbody - One More Day [Smartpunk Records]

One More Day, the debut album from shoegazing emo-punks clearbody, bears down on you from above from its very opening moments. Much like scene luminaries Superheaven and Cloakroom, the Charlotte trio’s grizzled, reverb-soaked rock aspires to fill the whole sky, yet with its melodic density in tow, much of that is consumed into our own claustophobic insularity. Thus, brings the hearth from the trio’s vacuous sound into our own desolate realm of darkness wholly, and lets it burn within. It makes for a blurring firestorm of palatable gloom that at least offers you comfort in spite of each daily struggle.

Code Orange - UNDERNEATH [Roadrunner Records]

As most of the world remained stuck inside throughout 2020 and unsure of what it will look like when we actually do see that light at the end of the tunnel, the corrosion of the self through our addicted virtual identities has come back karmically to torture us on UNDERNEATH. Code Orange’s latest transformation is a series of shock therapy treatment and defiant self-immolation tailored for their largest stage to date as well. The Pittsburg band’s sound continues to thrive off pure hybrid chaos that reflects pitch black nihilism with frayed wired nü-metal connections, dramatic, brutalist metalcore maximalsm, and towering new power that shakes the fault lines. A collective machine built from not only their own individual might, UNDERNEATH hears the ills of humanity sink deep into Code Orange’s skin and again change their DNA.

Deftones - Ohms [Warner Records]

Ohms, the ninth studio effort from Deftones, is a masterful display of the sheer sonic velocity which the metal-gazing hydra-heads still have the power to conduct through the atmosphere, even 25 years after they broke new ground with their definitive album White Pony. It could be, in parts, due to the fact that Ohms reunites the Chino Moreno’s atmosphere-defying vocals and guitarist Stephen Carpenter’s monochromatic electricity with classic era producer Terry Date, but there’s a newfound wisdom on balance (”balance, balance, balance!…”) heard in their alternative rock innovations that turns Ohms into an infinite current every future heavy artist will be keen to draw from.

DRAIN - California Cursed [Revolution Records]

Santa Cruz thrashers DRAIN have been seething to make their official first move in the hardcore scene since amassing a cult following within its DIY circles and becoming fest highlights over the last few years. Their debut full-length for venerable hardcore label Revolution Records does no hold back on that feeding frenzy. Rattling influence of NYC hardcore as well as a high voltage metallic intensity, California Cursed is a filthy homage to their home state that chomps with disgust and reckoning for its polluted air and water. Frontperson Sam Ciaramitaro’s sneering performance ups the confrontation with a tidal wave of chaos backs up his audacity. Washed ashore at its end, you won’t know what hit you.

ENTRY - Detriment [Southern Lord]

It only takes 15-minutes of ENTRY’s Detriment to turn your body’s nervous system inside-out. Formed in Los Angeles between PA punk scene veteran Sara Gregory, Touché Amoré guitarist Clayton Stevens, Sean Sakamoto of the indie-pop band Sheer on bass, and drummer Chris Dwyer, the band’s arrival spills all of the very heaviest-hitting emotions being burdened within our bodies in a terrifying year into an onslaught of scathing screams and brutalist hardcore. Their exorcism might wreck everything, including you. Burn it down. Start over. ENTRY’s means justify its ends.

Gulch - Impenetrable Cerebral Fortress [Closed Casket Recordings]

You will experience instantaneous confrontation when pressing play on Gulch’s Impenetrable Cerebral Fortress. The Santa Crus five-piece’s debut full-length is a scourge of corrosive electricity and piston drums played at excess speed with an ugly, nihilist end destination. All this is placated with album art that projects Gulch’s binary of strange, carnal beauty and a grotesque allegory of life gnarled through reckless hardcore merrymaking, making the whole of the 15-minute listen resonate much deeper than its temporal intentions. Paired with the production of Jack Shirley (Deafheaven, Loma Prieta), Gulch are able to see their vision through the flames fanned on their 2018 EP Burning Desire to Draw Last Breath, and incinerate you from a stereo’s distance.

HEALTH - DISCO4 :: PART I [Loma Vista Recordings]

Normally, HEALTH’s DISCO series involve remixes of their own work, but its latest installment is a very, very different, more abrasive monster. Instead of reimagining existing work, the Los Angeles industrial trio set out to create new music with an esoteric cast of abrasive misfits and other sonic outliers, including the likes of Soccer Mommy, Xiu Xiu, 100gecs, FULL OF HELL, and Youth Code. The culmination of those efforts on DISCO4 :: PART I is a fascinating experiment in new possibilities, as each of the artists are able to explore new layers within existence’s darkness (and their own) by merging their creative identities into HEALTH’s futuristic noise.

Higher Power - 27 Miles Underwater [Roadrunner Records]

Built with just the right amount of progressive hardcore groove and big anthem gloss, Higher Power’s 27 Miles Underwater has the ability to command pits digging up the underground as well as those soaring above the masses. The super power distinguishing the UK bunch from the growl of their peers is the vocally amorphous presence of frontman Jimmy Wizard as it polarizes itself over sawing riffs and cosmic spaces with both raw and aerodynamic plasticity. His existential primal screams compliment the overarching soundscape guitarists Louis Hardy and Max Harper, drummer Alex Wizard and bassist Ethan Wilkinson create as it zig-zags from melodramatic hardcore into ambiguous psychedelic wavelengths being resonated through the depths of the universe.

Hum - Inlet [Earth Analog Records]

In the 22 years that Hum have gravitated away from our orbit, their mark on rock music has at least been apparent from down here on Earth. There is however, a greater reach from Hum’s orbit down to our terrain here on their return Inlet. No longer glossed with the major label studio sheen that gave them alternative FM dial hits, the Champaign space-rock quartet sound at home reconvening in a more ornate, dynamic form through their second life. For 55 minutes, it feels like every detail on Hum’s International Space Station is visible from the ground as it makes passage right outside your window, humanizing their future sound as something tangible with a touch of fragility.

METZ - Atlas Vending [Sub Pop]

METZ have never ceased to take artistry into account in the loud volume of their noisemaking, where as many of their peers have fallen by the wayside for relying too, er, heavily on their ability to make the room shake and bowl over listeners. Atlas Vending, the Toronto trio’s third full-length effort, is what noise-rock sounds like when all of its moving parts work in unison as one well-oiled machine. Guitarist and vocalist Alex Edkins, bassist Chris Slorach and drummer Hayden Menzies have not only refined their decibel-crushing sound by pushing it even further into the sky, but they do so by delivering their hookiest material yet without disregarding their innate ability to rattle through any surface, be it in the flesh or through the speakers.

Moor Mother - Circuit City [Don Giovanni Records]

Camea Awaya’s work as Moor Mother feels endless and interconnected, even when she veers off course into cosmic experimentalism or joins forces with creative forces outside her own body. The sounds which the avant-noise artist has already assembled especially move differently when she reconnects with them, as is the case Circuit City, a production originally staged in front of a festival audience and now given a proper recording which brings a different source of energy into the composition. Awaya fills every second with its own purpose, struck by calamity in an avant-jazz fusion of brass and percussive confusion mirroring her own. Her words and the fury of sound battle with the darkest of American injustices – All of the shattered wishes, dreams, and right. Constantly surrounded by a war for her own being, Circuit City connects the outside world’s noise with an anxiety that has becomes too daunting to ignore.

Narrow Head - 12th House Rock [Run for Cover Records]

The second 12th House Rock lifts off with “Yer’ Song”, Narrow Head have left our atmosphere. With the Houston rockers’ sophomore effort and first for Run for Cover Records, the five-piece take homage with the mightiest of the ‘90s alternative’s big riffed work heard in the currents of everything from Hum, the Deftones, My Bloody Valentine, and Brit pop fully amped. With a little rewiring of their electric diagrams, Narrow Head rips through huge hooks and dizzying spins of their own gravity. In these times, 12th House Rock’s energy is the kind of escapist album direly needed in 2020 when you need to put something on loud to drown out the rest of the world.

Nothing - The Great Dismal [Relapse Records]

There is probably never going to be a moment in time where Nothing change their tune on the inevitable collision between our lives and oblivion, and The Great Dismal is the period on that statement that makes it reverberatingly loud that won’t be happening any time soon, if ever at all. The Philly shoegazing punk band’s fourth full-length effort piles on heavier dark matter and churns up the velocity as they plummet into the big black hole sucking us all in more by the day. The songs on this album are also beautiful sinks into the void as well, containing the four-piece’s most accessible work to date. Their sound – muscled in hook-laden feedback, adorned by touches in oddity from Alex G and Mary Lattimore, and confident in boldness – can hold its own even in zero gravity.

Record Setter - I Owe You Nothing [Topshelf Records]

Despite having clashed with their sound in the past through grungy post-hardcore and atmospheric math-rock, Record Setter’s I Owe You Nothing is arguably the first obvious moment of clarity for the Denton, TX four-piece even if their sound veers off into varying gravities of screamo, post-hardcore, and cavernous emo rock. The emotional weight anchored behind each track is what grounds the listen onto the same landing space regardless. A catharsis in identity and by Judy Mitchell’s living truth, approaching their art with this intention has emancipated the band’s second-guessing. Be it the chaos in motion, melodic turnstiles, or vulnerabilities impressed close to the surface, Record Setter attach a heaviness to their sound created not by decibel or amplification (although, the use of added weight in their crushed guitars and crash cymbals adds the album’s turbulence…,) but by human forces bleeding themselves into it.

Shamir - Cataclysm [Self-released]

On Cataclysm, the darker side of two very different albums from Shamir this year, the genre ambiguous artist embraces death through distortion, and that it renders both an anomaly in his catalog by way of stylistic consistency as well as some of his most hook-driven rockers to date makes this turn toward sonic violence stick. In listening to tracks like the static-drenched menacing bop of “Hell”, the desolate post punk atmosphere of “Scream”, or a queer take on Nada Surf popularity in “Feminine Guy”, you can hear how these songs exist to hex listeners into Shamir’s heathenry as he channels an unconventional lightness in his vocals through beefed up muscularity in guitar electricity. If the butterfly must die, then it will never be in vain, for this incarnation of Shamir creates something remarkably outside this world when baring all of its weight.

SOUL GLO - Songs to Yeet At The Sun [Secret Voice]

Even in its rapid fire 12-minute length, Songs to Yeet At The Sun, the latest EP from SOUL GLO, is one of the most vital pieces of heavy music this year. Chomping from the fringe as artists mutating the look and sound of the modern punk community in both its vantage point and a forward-thinking clash of style, the Philly four-piece’s latest offering slams like a poetry of Pierce Jordan’s own Black American experience through a rapid scene-changing stream of conscious, as the five-track listen surges in with adrenaline junky hardcore before recoiling into noisy raptures, then back into bulldozing mode before. What’s left behind is a sludgy pile of bones and guts that will surely be used to reshape the scene from here on out.

Sparta - Trust the River [Dine Alone Records]

Between the band’s 2006 effort Threes and their return in Trust the River, Sparta’s Jim Ward has ventured off the beaten path with his songwriting by delving into folk and indie rock with his other projects under his own name and the band Sleepercar, respectively. Some of those homegrown hints have seeped into Sparta’s water on their first album in 14 years on what is a fitting return to ground-level after gravitating far above the horizon for so long in the band’s early catalog. Trust the River communicates with these times’ political landscape as well as the complexities of our own personal relationships in that way where Sparta’s roughened melancholia can feel like a faded picture. This time, it’s easier to see the faces from down here on Earth, and they’re wearing heavy emotion.

SPICE - SPICE [DAIS Records]

There are five members in the pan-Californian band SPICE who’ve contributions lay equally on the surface of their eponymous debut album’s crackling, rocky complexion. At its epicenter of those fault line is most notably that of vocalist, CEREMONY frontman Ross Farrar alongside fellow CEREMONY drummer Jake Casarotti, bassist Cody Sullivan (No Sir, Sabertooth Zombie), guitarist Ian Simpson (Creative Adult,) and violinist Victoria Skudlarek. The collective’s “deliberate isolation of pain” through a fascia of hardcore and indie rock channel themselves through in non-stop urgency that makes for one of the year’s most rewardingly thrill rides in anxiety-riddled head charges and whirring melodies. Pop-induced, billowing in the air, and heavy like a pile of bricks at once, and when all of these elements atomize onto one slab, we hear how pain even in isolated form comes in many forms.

Sprain - As Lost Through Collision [The Flenser]

Sprain’s As Lost Through Collision is an album that will test your patience. Across seven tracks in super-length spans, the listen lingers, reawakens, and stretches out time to defy the space is consumes. Alex Kent and April Gerloff, who early on the band’s catalog sought to realign elements of slowcore and post-hardcore in a meditative sense, now have piled on a heavier rig of louder influences pulling from the Flenser universe of black metal and post-rock, with the addition of second guitarist guitarist Alex Simmons and drummer Max Pretzer assisting in the moving of concrete walls and steel beams in their sound. Whatever they are building, they eventually redesign or break down, leaving your bereft in its glum.

Touché Amoré - Lament [Epitaph Records]

Touché Amoré’s fifth studio effort Lament is a duality in natural evolutions for the Los Angeles post-hardcore band. In one respect, it deals with the fallout of grief laid bare on the band’s 2016 album Stage Four and in learning to coexist with those emotions, for better or for worse. In another, the listen marks another seismic shift in pushing the boundaries of their progressive hardcore sound into bigger, more ambitious territories with the help of veteran rock producer Ross Robinson, who has guided genre classics by everyone from Korn and Slipknot to the Blood Brothers and At the Drive-In. In giving themselves a larger arena to shout into, there still is no ceiling too high in sight for how far Touché Amoré can climb out of life’s murk.

Thou & Emma Ruth Rundle - May Our Chambers Be Full [Sacred Bones Records]

Emma Ruth Rundle’s manifestation of doom unfurls naturally through knots of haunted folkwork and sludgy feedback, while the heavy experimental metallic atmosphere of Thou has proven to have a way of melding itself around whatever surroundings its thicker air seeks out. On May Our Chambers Be Full, a collaborative effort between the two forces in metal, the two build a monument for the human experience’s polarities in its joyous desperation and immense sorrow through a sound formed in grungy pits and sky-scaling alternative anthemry. If this one feels like it’s tearing every emotion straight from the chest, it’s only because Emma Ruth Rundle and Thou have a natural sense as to where they beat most heavily.

Truth Cult - Off Fire [Pop Wig Records]

Truth Cult is breaking out of the Baltimore hardcore scene with their debut full-length Off Fire, released fittingly on local scene label Pop Wig Records (the label ran by members of Turnstile and Angel Du$t.) Its membership is familiar with spaces that form pits, as it collects members of Give, Pure Disgust, and Red Death, and their sound touches on the gruff post-hardcore rumblings of its surrounding environment. For context, they’ve opened for Lifetime, and have a very Dan Yemin-like energy to their sound that deadlifts a weight similar to what Paint It Black and Open City are throwing down. Off Fire is similarly politicized and swings hard, but that takes nothing away from the melodic gravity of the LP in a way that hears Truth Cult’s sound living up to the elements of its title.

Uniform - Shame [Sacred Bones Records]

Shame, the third studio effort from combustible Brooklyn industry noise torchers Uniform, sets out to rid the self of that which destroys us from the inside out. What’s different about this beastial incantation from the trio’s past releases is how it much raw the internal wounds look on the surface, as the album unburdens itself of conditioned self-hate and constructs a effigy for all that pain to set into flames. It’s a self-immolation of the soul in which frontperson Michael Berdan screams through the smoke, his voice often engulfed and dissipated in a razor burn of guitars and fuel-doused drums. To free themselves it all, Uniform sees no other way out beyond setting themselves on fire -- and burn gloriously, at that.

War On Women - Wonderful Hell [Bridge Nine Records]

Wonderful Hell was released days ahead of this year’s critical presidential election, and War On Women had a concentrated reason as to why: The rallying cries and calls for action hurled into the masses by Shawna Potter made for one last push of resistance against these last four years. Now that we’ve overcome the first hurdle, the Baltimore punk band’s third album serves as a reminder as to how much more work there is to be done. Their agenda hasn’t changed all that much since 2017′s breakout Capture the Flag – defeat fascism, fight for equality for both women and the marginalized, make misogyny and any form hate extinct – and they’ve sharpened the edges of their razor-backed melodic punk anthems here to make their ultimate end-game clear.

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muzzleroars · 4 years

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Cake’s Bad End Au Part III: The Holy Grail

Here it is, the posts that will finally outline the events of my Bad End AU! I’m not a writer in any sense, but with so many people enjoying the content I create for this AU and several people asking about it, I wanted to write up a synopsis of the events that take place and, more simply, what this AU even is. This is my idea of what happens when Akira takes Yaldabaoth’s deal on Christmas Eve and all of its implications, so I hope everyone enjoys it and that it puts the pieces for my AU in context. There will be three parts: Akira, The Thieves, and The Holy Grail. This is Part III: The Holy Grail, which details how Akira is saved and how the Thieves ultimately conquer Yaldabaoth. (7,325 words)

(TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of abuse and some descriptions of illness/pain)

When the Thieves meet again, there’s a strained sadness, close to hopelessness as they look at each other in turn and wonder if anyone has any ideas...the longer the silence hangs over them, the closer they come to saying out loud only things Goro has had the courage to say until now but, surprisingly, Ryuji speaks up. He prefaces what he’s about to say with acknowledging how stupid it’s probably going to sound and that he never really understood too much how the Metaverse worked but...with the scar on Akira’s chest, with the way it bled to summon that god, is it possible Akira’s heart was stolen and...if they get it back...maybe…? He trails off with the idea as no one speaks up, thinking it must have been SO stupid the other Thieves don’t even want to recognize it, but Ann says hesitantly that she thought of something similar. Ryuji nods excitedly to her and looks over to Makoto, their stand-in leader, and he’s hopeful by the look of concentration on her face as she considers what Ryuji says. They wait on her silence before she asks Goro about Akira’s heartbeat, how he didn’t feel a pulse, and Goro completes her thought by saying, as a being of the Metaverse, Akira’s heart being stolen has translated into something literal in a sense. His heart is actually gone...but it’s not in the way the Thieves’ had stolen them before, correct? After all, Akira is a pure being that Yaldabaoth is attempting to “perfect”, Makoto positing that perhaps his shadow was destroyed similar to a mental shutdown but Goro suspects it could be that he is severed from his shadow...and if that is the case, his shadow exists in some capacity somewhere as it seems not all of his memories are entirely lost. A rescue mission in a sense seems more feasible after seeing the god that controls him and if they were to find his shadow – or his persona – lost in the sea of souls, there must be a way of reconnecting the two in order for Akira to regain his heart.

All of this is conjecture, they understand that, but Futaba immediately begins to think on how she and her Persona might be able to find Akira’s heart...surely it must remain somewhere in Mementos and if she begins attempting to track for Arsène’s signature, maybe...maybe they could find him. And while he may have forgotten himself being stolen from Akira, perhaps, if Goro really does have similar capabilities, he could negotiate with him in the same way Akira used to in order for Arsène to remember himself. It’s a longshot and they all know it, but what in their work as Thieves hasn’t been? It will require them to face down a hostile Metaverse, perhaps even moreso now, time and time again before they may even get a hint of Arsène, but they all agree to the plan...including Goro, who mostly holds out hope that in finding Arsène, they’ll learn exactly what happened to Akira.

So with a plan in place, they push forward into Mementos once more and day after day they will spend hours roaming its halls, Futaba helping to cloak them along with smokescreens they’ve created using Akira’s old notes, but still they seem endlessly hunted with the Reaper in particular tailing them far more often than it used to. It’s grueling work, however, the team’s morale whittling little by little every day after an excursion that leaves them bone-tired but no closer to finding their answer...and what if they’re wrong? What if the god has totally destroyed Akira’s shadow and has modified him after causing a mental shutdown in him? It must be possible for an entity like that to accomplish as much...but even still, they persist because, after all, this is their best option – they can’t leave Akira as he is, and it’s either fight to the death or bet on Arsène still existing somewhere in the vast reaches of Mementos. It’s exhausting, it’s thankless, and the public continue to shift more and more due to the amounts of hearts Akira reaps, but it also reminds them every day that this cannot stand, that Akira would never have wanted this...even if he was the one that created it.

It makes all their pain well worth it when Futaba’s search finally pings late into the night in another trip to Mementos – a signature like Akira’s, like Arsène’s, wandering deep in the Depths where they know they can’t stay for long without fear of being devoured. It’s a mad dash toward that signal before they lose it, Futaba keeping a good track of it even as it moves erratically through the floor, and finally, finally, all of their patience and hard work can pay off. Arsène obviously isn’t whole, his mask cracked with broken horns and torn wings, making it clear how forcefully he was ripped from Akira in order to sever his will of rebellion and brainwash him for that god. He initially behaves similarly to the other shadows that wander the Metaverse, although his attacks are far more frenzied and disjointed, but, knowing all his weaknesses, the Thieves can easily surround him to attempt a negotiation...and it’s one that proves interesting, even difficult, given Akira’s propensity to wear masks. They must answer in a way Akira would like, the true Akira and not the one molding himself to whatever the other person might want to hear, so it takes the effort of each and every one of them coming together to answer the questions Arsène poses to them. Goro takes the helm on speaking with him, however, distinctly aware of how similar he and Akira could be if the disguise was peeled away from them both, and with that knowledge coupled with consultation between all of the Thieves, they come to reason with Arsène and in doing so, he remembers himself, he remembers Akira.

He takes up residence in Goro’s heart after thanking the Thieves for finding him, admitting that he too initially sought them out but, given his weakened state and his separation from Akira, he forgot himself. They learn from him all that happened to lead Akira here, how the false god had led him through this past year, how they had forged a powerful bond just as Akira had with all of the others here, how that trust was betrayed...how all of them disappeared and Akira was left to decide the fate of the world while held hostage under threat of death, under the coercion of his teammates being revived, under the impression of a cold and callous public that cared not for him nor any of Thieves that had been lost. In that state, he made the wrong choice – he gave in to his own desires and the god ripped Arsène from him, tore out any connection they had to each other in a bid to destroy Akira’s rebellious spirit and make room for him to take up residence where Akira’s heart had once been. Arsène was not gotten rid of himself as Akira was still human at the time and doing so would have killed him, with the false god a bumbling fool himself that has no knowledge of how the human soul works and so could never safely perform the operation himself. So Arsène was cast off into the depths instead, where Yaldabaoth knew he would ultimately forget himself and, in time, possibly expire due to his lack of a human host at that point. In other words, Yaldabaoth is arrogant, narrow-sighted, and stupid, hardly a god but instead just a being given immense power that had twisted Akira’s cognition...for all those months, in fact. Akira, locked in the Depths of Mementos under the guise of the Velvet Room, the two fused in such a way that Akira was, without knowledge, exposed to Yaldabaoth’s distortion each time he stepped foot into that cell – with no image of rebellion to protect him, he was slowly poisoned with Yaldabaoth’s influence, insidiously, to the point that it may have helped tip the scale in Akira’s decision. Now knowing the truth and knowing what their leader had suffered to bring him to this state, all that’s left was to see if the Thieves could return Arsène to him...or if it really would come down to their deaths.

Now would come the full exploration of Akira’s cathedral – the Thieves wait until there is another lull in hearts being stolen, knowing it means Akira must have returned home in order to rest. It could be their final mission, all of them knowing one of three things will happen today: They die, Akira dies, or Akira comes back to them, and while they have no idea which one it will be, they have steeled themselves for any and all possibilities. Back into Mementos, back into the cathedral, now fighting through zealous shadows that attack them for daring to step foot on holy ground again, but when they find Akira isn’t resting on his throne, they know this has become a full on infiltration. They treat it like always, sneaking over the rafters, hiding in shadowy corners, working deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine structure to find where he must rest in order to avoid the shadows that crowd his nave. Out of the public areas, they find the cathedral full of angels that serve Akira and are single-minded in his protection, particularly against the Thieves that have angered their god so. But their resolve is hardened, no longer fearful as they fight through blood and tears to carve a path to Akira’s private quarters where his personal servants launch one last stand against them. They are hellbent on destroying these invaders but it comes nowhere near the absolute rage felt by every single Thief, tearing them apart to finally find Akira once more, already awake and waiting for them. He’s exhausted now, the smile gone from his face that looks sicker than it ever has, wasting and no longer in the mood to humor them. He draws his scythe without words this time and they know it’s now or never, they would have to fight, wear down whatever resolve he still has left, and return Arsène to him just as Yaldabaoth’s control breaks but before he comes to his child’s aid.

The timing needs to be perfect, Goro having to gauge that opening as he stays in close with the others keeping him protected against any of Akira’s blows. The fight is a desperate one, Akira clearly burning himself out by fighting so soon after his punishment for defying Yaldabaoth in saving the Thieves the last they met, but it’s exactly as they had hoped even if it pains them to think what he must have gone through for it. It allows them to reach his breaking point sooner, to rip off that yoke of control where they can hear him, hear their Akira in his voice, and in that second, without a beat between them, Goro breaks through the ranks of the Thieves to summon Arsène. He rushes into Akira, the other boy dropping his weapon as Goro’s hand slams into his chest and all the Thieves huddle in around them, no clue how they could help but lending all their strength and all their pleas to Akira to accept Arsène, to remember himself if only for one second to open his heart again...and Goro feels Arsène leave him, the heaviness of his presence lighting off of his heart. The mark on Akira chest tears again, bleeds once more, but only a moment later it fades...not gone, but now a scar instead of an open wound as Arsène manifests before him once more, asking him to take back his future. The pain it causes Akira is immense, Yaldabaoth roaring in his head and attempting to drown Arsène out, drive him out of his heart once more where only one of them can stay. Akira screams and shudders, collapsing under the weight of a splitting headache...but it feels familiar, like he has been called to this before. He feels like he teeters on the edge of death but Arsène’s voice is familiar...all of their voices are familiar in that instant...he can’t put the memories together, they’re too fractured, but Arsène’s voice drives over Yaldabaoth’s reminding him that he did all of this for them, will he abandon them now and let them die?

Never. Akira will always save them, no matter the cost.

Led only by his emotions, he takes Arsène’s contract to expel Yaldabaoth from his heart in an effort that sees him fold in on himself entirely where Goro catches him, the cathedral beginning to crack and collapse around them like the Palace of a fallen ruler. They move quickly, rushing from the quickly disintegrating building and the palpable anger of a god that’s had his most devout servant stolen from him by Thieves. This is the point at which the Bad End AU splits into its good or bad ending (NO I haven’t decided on what is the “true” ending skdfd) – Akira either dies shortly after these events or he continues to live on in order to assist them in felling Yaldabaoth. If Akira dies, he does so just as they reach the end of Mementos – he tells them he doesn’t have the strength to go on in reality and even now, his body is only sustained by feeding off of Mementos, off of what Yaldabaoth continues to give him. As a last bid to help them, through pained and breathless apologies as a fever grips him and his vision begins to fade out, he uses what’s left of his strength to reopen the Velvet Room and return Morgana to the Thieves, as well as have Lavenza and Igor’s aid as Goro must work in his stead now. He apologizes for this, especially to Goro, thinking...they must have made a promise like this before, right? Goro is stained with his blood by now, coated in the smell of fresh roses as the Velvet Room door opens once more and Morgana rushes out, desperate to help, to guide, to give them hope...but he knows he’s too late seeing Akira’s limp and fading form held fast in Goro’s arms. Lavenza comes behind him, passing by Goro’s shuddering frame as he squeezes Akira, holding him tighter and tighter like that will keep him there with them, and she sits beside him. Akira apologizes to her too, in a voice so quiet only she and Goro can hear, and she forgives him, telling him she always knew he would make the right choice in the end while Morgana comes to join her. He gets in close to Akira, telling him how proud he is and how he doesn’t need to worry anymore – Morgana will lead them all to victory and he can just get some sleep...he’s tired, right? Akira nods, smiling again as Morgana presses in against him and the last things he can feel are Morgana’s comforting warmth and the safety of Goro’s arms before he leaves Yaldabaoth in capable hands.

Should Akira live, however, they reach the edge of Mementos just the same and Akira unlocks the Velvet Room as well, but he instead informs them he can’t possibly exist in reality. He asks them to just leave him to his fate for rebelling against Yaldabaoth, but Morgana and Lavenza arrive to offer him shelter in the Velvet Room which, now free of the god’s control thanks to Akira, he should be safe in as Yaldabaoth will find it impossible to reach. The Thieves know it’s their only choice, very aware that they’ll die if they stick around to think about it too much longer, and so they leave Akira in the hands of the Velvet Room before exiting the Metaverse at Lavenza’s insistence that they go home for a rest – Morgana will contact them the following day to coordinate their efforts. Akira escapes to the Velvet Room, finding himself exhausted and confused to the point that he immediately collapses and spends the next full day asleep. Morgana sticks close to him, only leaving when Akira wakes once more and he needs to go into reality to fetch the other Thieves for a full meeting after all this time.

When they arrive, all of them are ready to rush to Akira, to welcome him back and have a mini celebration for his return...but he’s not healed the way they all expect. He looks no different and he informs all of them he has no memory of them, not even a sliver beyond splintered pieces that flash without his consent that he cannot piece together, and he is not at all human. But Arsène, all of his memories were whole...Akira just shakes his head, suspecting Arsène sacrificed quite a bit in order to fight with Yaldabaoth for his rightful place, so while Akira can feel again, while his rebellious will has returned and he feels an unspeakable amount of betrayal toward his father, the specific memories of his human life are gone. He informs the Thieves that he trusts them implicitly and he will fight for them and their ideals, so they can figure out the rest once Yaldabaoth is...gone, but his voice is full of obvious reluctance and immediately Goro states he’s too much of a liability to go into battle with against his “father”. The Thieves object instantly, saying it’s Akira’s right to stand up against him just like all of them have done in the past and that they believe in his trust of them, that he initially did all of this for them. Akira nods, however, noting that Goro’s point is one based on logic and could be correct – While Akira has regained some of his heart, it is broken in a sense and he doesn’t wish to hold the group back from what they must do. The risk of him bowing to Yaldabaoth’s control isn’t minimal either, so he would ask to act as support and perhaps provide an expert source of navigation for their return to Mementos, given that he understands it as it is really just a part of himself. No one had expected Akira to jump back in as leader, exactly...but to hear him say he would act in a support capacity without fighting to go up against the one who wronged him so terribly is unnerving to the Thieves. It’s just...not how Akira would act. They try prompting him further but his response stays the same – Goro is being logical, he shouldn’t be on the frontlines. Morgana takes over for him at that point, saying it most likely is for the best to let Akira act as he thinks he should with a threat like this looming over all of them. Still, despite the Thieves being put off by an Akira that seems more like a shell than the friend they knew...they have Morgana back and Akira is there to help them at the very least, and they need to take victories where they can. Goro isn’t so easily sated, but he knows he needs to swallow his emotions for the time being too.

Truthfully, Akira knows it may not even be the best logical answer to allow him to go along with them at all as he feels Mementos churning and twisting, having already taken a small private trip before the Thieves had been gathered to see the agitation in the shadows there (just to the first floor, just out of the curiosity that has always plagued him), yet they still don’t move to attack him. He’s slightly puzzled by the development, but he knows it’s something to do with the public’s cognition along with...his father’s, but he has been cut off from Yaldabaoth’s thoughts, and so he doesn’t pursue the question any further for it is not his place to guess at the divine. Akira still believes in the divinity of Yaldabaoth, that he is indeed a god that was born of people’s will, and it’s difficult to accept the fact that he’ll soon be standing by the Thieves’ side in opposition even if he now does believe his father is wrong. Even still thinking of him as a parent, as the one that provided for and protected him...knowing that going to him now with his convictions set to aid the Thieves meaning that either they or his father will have to die. But he can’t let humanity suffer under his cruel and callous rule, he can’t let him drain humans of their independence and their right to grow and change, because Akira knows it’s not out of care for them but instead hatred for their failings. Even in his faltering resolve, he knows what is right and what is wrong...and Yaldabaoth, his father or not, is wrong.

And, though he senses love and devotion from the Thieves, he senses their discomfort with him as well, their fear of him and the way they emotionally recoil when he speaks (he doesn’t have human speech patterns down, so his intonation is still odd and flat). Goro is particularly repulsed by him, lashing out at him and criticizing him while the other Thieves quickly rush to his defense despite the obvious misgivings of their own...but he feels a depth and breadth of emotion in Goro focused solely on him that is nearly alarming to a being like Akira. And for his part, he feels love and devotion to all the Thieves, but it simply lacks context, the memories that would provide him understanding and the human capability to experience emotion to provide him clarity...and similarly, his feelings for Goro are profound and complex, ones he can barely understand and parse let alone come to label in neat categories. All of this mixed emotion dictates to Akira that he must remain strictly as a functional unit of the group, providing them aid and navigation when needed without adding anything unnecessary that may cause strife and therefor miscalculation. The Thieves themselves feel deeply guilty for their own anxiety around Akira, but...he truly isn’t their leader, he isn’t their friend, yet they understand how much of an effort he’s making now to support them. There will be time to heal after all of this and that thought keeps them going as Morgana helps bridge the gap between them, helps ease all the tension they feel in order to work with Akira the way they need to. Only Goro seems resistant to it, but they do know why he, out of all of them, would struggle the most with what’s become of Akira.

They don’t really have the luxury of waiting and getting used to each other, however, Yaldabaoth moving forward with what he had decided on Christmas Eve now that he’s lost Akira. Akira knows his plan, that he will force the real world to fuse with the Metaverse now that the bridge between himself and reality is gone – humanity was judged to be sinful and only granted a reprieve because Akira worked so tirelessly to instill Yaldabaoth’s ideals into the public. So with only some rest, the group can wait no longer as reality bends around them to resemble the Depths of Mementos and, with the Thieves receiving some guidance from the Velvet Room, they move forward to save humanity one last time. Akira does well to mind himself, assisting in tactical orders or, if he finds his mind buckling, keeping himself silent to focus on blocking out Yaldabaoth’s ideals, his insistence, his voice ringing in his ears still. He can manage with the help of Arsène and Futaba by his side but the further they go, the closer they get to his temple, the more silent he becomes and the seed of doubt planted in the Thieves grows little by little...but still, they push forward, they know Akira can overcome this. However, they know all too well that the real test starts when they reach the shrine of the Holy Grail, when they once again face the god that had held him captive and stolen his human life, the very will from his heart. Goro strongly suggests Akira leave them before they do so, but in his first show of true emotion, true conviction, he rejects the idea immediately, saying he will never be free if he doesn’t enter that temple with them...if he doesn’t find closure with his father. He can’t falter now, he can’t afford weakness, or he will surely wither when this world disappears with Yaldabaoth – and he will not betray them. The Thieves all agree after some contemplation and Morgana’s blessing, Goro the last to accept Akira’s presence but there’s something different in his eyes when he watches the other boy now before they enter the shrine.

Their final confrontation arrives, the Grail shining brilliantly in the center of the shrine surrounded by his devout followers and Akira is immediately inundated with thoughts that are not his own, Yaldabaoth’s voice booming against his skull in reprimands, in disgust, in hatred for him. He speaks to the Thieves too but Akira knows his words to them are different and they begin their fight, attacking him from every angle in blows Akira can faintly feel ghosting over his own body. He grits his teeth against the lashes, all of them paling in comparison to the fight to continue controlling his own body under the oppressive weight of Yaldabaoth’s presence encroaching on his heart. There will be a place for you, my child, there is always a place for you by my side to join in my reality...Repent. Repent and return to me if you wish to protect not just these humans but the ones scattered in every corner of the world, the ones who will suffer without you. Repent, or they die along with you. His father is growing angrier, wrathful toward the rebellious Thieves before him and the son that has abandoned him, soon no longer wishing to humor them as he takes his true form, the one they had seen come to Akira’s aid that day in the cathedral. Akira has fallen to the floor, clutching at a chest with a wound that’s reopening, little by little the flesh tears and begins to bleed around his fingers as his resolve wanes in all the pain he feels, in the guilt he feels at his betrayal and the grief he can feel in Yaldabaoth. What a terrible child, what an ungrateful child...what a cruel child to strike at the god that had protected and nurtured him so.

The Thieves stand up against him even now though, the blows they level against him growing more and more painful to Akira, his thoughts breaking apart as he forgets, Arsène’s voice growing weak and distant and Yaldabaoth’s growing ever more powerful...and he finds the pain fading as he takes up his scythe, as the name “Akira” flickers out of his mind. Akira opens his eyes to look up, to see the Thieves bloodied and battered and still fighting as Yaldabaoth rains an onslaught of devastation onto them only for them to support one another, protect the weakened to heal them while the others attack with a ferocity that one exhausted and drained human being should never be capable of. Futaba is focused on the battle in front of her but immediately turns to see Akira as he rises, weapon in hand once more and looking too oddly calm. She calls out to him in fear, the other Thieves picking up on the shaking in her voice and those on the backlines grip their weapons in sweating hands, healing each other once more as the god mocks their sentimentality, their insistence to save those who never asked for them. Akira’s movements are unsteady, each one is fought against as that shred of his heart restored to him screams in protest and while the Thieves are forced to raise their weapons against him again, they know he’s struggling with every swing of his scythe, he’s fighting himself more than he is them. Memories flash, he remembers the fear, the dread of losing his humanity, losing the will to care for the people in front of him now that call to him, who are fighting for their lives but do no harm to him even as he attacks them just as Yaldabaoth commands. But his body is pulled unwillingly, his heart is with him again even if he’s too stupid to remember the people that love him, even if he’s too selfish to keep them safe like he once promised he would. It’s Yaldabaoth’s bid to control him but he is no longer a part of Akira...he can’t be, his heart belongs to him and him alone, and he can’t afford to cause suffering to those that would risk their very lives to return it to him...even if they go against the people and even if they are sinners. That’s what Yaldabaoth would say, but he lied, time and time again he told malignant untruths to Akira, who now does his best to keep standing even as that excruciating pain returns to him in punishing waves. It’s the least he can do, stand with them as they do all the heavy-lifting for him, lower the scythe he can raise at them but not Yaldabaoth still...he wonders if he was this pathetic in his human life, but then isn’t that just like a human? Having to lean on others?

But he is quickly punished for his endless defiance and his wicked treachery, for the very thought that he should admire human weakness. His vision shutters, the sounds around him ripped away, even the feel of the wind battering against him is stolen with such speed and such force it’s almost painful, every sense suspended. Numb even to pain he wishes would come back. Complete deprivation. Akira has felt it, it’s not the first time Yaldabaoth has taken every sense without warning as a way of breaking his hysterias...so they are not totally severed, are they? He closes him off to everything, allowing only the experiences he deems appropriate, usually just his voice, his words after Akira has experienced a loneliness so penetrating he’s on the edge of losing even the false identity of The Son. But here, the silence, the lack of existence, only lasts long enough to remind Akira of all he has suffered, of all he has had, before Yaldabaoth’s voice speaks to him, no longer roaring, no longer shaking him with the very sound of it, but instead how he would speak to him in the days they spent in the Depths alone, only together surrounded by shadows. It’s stern, but it doesn’t have that hostility, it is only for him even if he knows his father must still be striking at the Thieves, working every second to kill them while he comes quietly to his child. He will have no place with them, he is no longer human and he will only repulse those he fights for now, the ones he now swears allegiance to will abandon the unnatural child...it is in human nature to do so. He asks that he repent, that he assist Yaldabaoth is killing Thieves that will only betray him, and the child can return to his only home in the Depths of Mementos, the human who’s heart has stopped and who’s blood is now made of the Holy Grail’s ichor. They are of each other and the two cannot be split, not after Akira’s resurrection through his elixir, and no measure of rebellious will, no measure of human stubbornness, the refusal to admit loss and all the deficiencies and fallacies of mankind, can bring Akira the humanity that has died. So he faces the choice of rejoining his father now, swearing his loyalty and returning his control to the god he is bound to, or Yaldabaoth will offer him the mercy to kill him with the others, to put him out of his misery if he chooses to drive himself mad by aligning himself with humans when he can only be rejected by them. But Akira can feel Yaldabaoth’s grip loosening, not because he wills it but because Akira’s own heart is interfering, gnawing at his power over him and allowing his senses to filter in little by little. Yaldabaoth’s offer, rejoin or perish here, show that his yoke has been thrown off of Akira’s shoulders – he cannot simply kill the Thieves and take Akira for himself again, he must return willingly...and so he appealed to his emotions, threatening him with loneliness, the exact punishment he had used on him to great effectiveness time and again.

But it’s enough. Maybe Akira will always be alone like this, maybe the humans he fights for now will leave him, but he tells his father it’s okay as his sight flickers in and out, muffled, distant sounds reverberating in his ears...because as much as he is no longer human, he is not like Yaldabaoth either, is he? Yaldabaoth is disgusted by him in a way too, he hates the human parts of him that react with emotion, that are irrational and distracted by hobbies, undeserving of the halo around his head in Yaldabaoth’s eyes. Yet his father asks that he stay with him, continues to reach out to him even as he actively opposes him and it is not a functional request - Akira knows Yaldabaoth does not believe he needs him by his side to destroy the Thieves, nor does he fear his child could be his downfall if he does not rejoin him...instead, Yaldabaoth feels richer with him, a fulfillment when they speak together, and he had learned to attach himself to something so imperfect, something that angered him, repelled him, something he should hate and yet felt what, in his own heart, could be thought of as the opposite. So why not the humans too? They will reach out to him, they will feel richer for knowing him, but they will not punish him so for the things they hate about him...and Yaldabaoth has grown malignant in his hatred for humanity, those he is meant to save from suffering. Even as The Son, a being meant to believe only in the word of his father, Akira knew of this hostility, always aware in some part of himself that it was wrong no matter how many times he may have forgotten that. So...weren’t all their arguments just leading up to this? His senses continue to return, flooding into him as he admits to his father this fight is what he wants, he wants to stand in opposition to Yaldabaoth, to the father that retracts his hand now in anger, in insult, in pain of rejection. He can hear Futaba shouting frantically for him when focus returns to his features, his slack frame immediately tightening up at the pain that rushes through him again but he remains upright, spine stricken straight as pearl-like eyes stay fixed to the blinding angles of Yaldabaoth who redoubles his efforts to destroy the Thieves that have stolen the one thing he may have ever cared for.

But there’s a moment as he stands by and watches, eyes moving to follow the movements of the Thieves, that it seems they...his friends...have a chance, it seems they really may be able to stand against his father and triumph...but it’s short-lived. He strikes them all down, each one of their bodies striking the earth beneath them and they can’t move, they can’t stand even though he can feel their struggles, their desperation to just get up one last time, their despair when their bodies refuse to obey. Now only Akira stands behind them, a coward who can feel Yaldabaoth’s gaze on him, burning into whatever soul he may have left, who mocks him for rejoining these pitiful thieves, who mourns the fact that he must kill him now with the others for his foolishness...to lose his child so pointlessly, even a god must grieve for him. Akira chokes on his words, wanting to encourage them to stand again but he can’t, how can he ask so much of them when he’s contributed nothing? And yet...it rises up in him, but he realizes it’s the cognition of the people, of the public as Morgana joins him to stand again and refuses to fall before Yaldabaoth, no matter how many times he may strike him down. Human hope. Human hope, which Akira so deeply admired, now stands up to his father small...but growing. It flickers but Akira can feel it too, he can feel what Yaldabaoth stole from the people, from his friends, from himself, and he begins to straighten his stance again even against the pain blooming from his chest. It’s hope, but hope fueled by anger, by a righteous fury unlike anything he felt working for his father, and Arsène’s voice overtakes Yaldabaoth’s as he can’t bear to hear anymore of his sanctimonious lecturing when he stole Akira’s very heart. Human hope and human anger, human rage at cruelty and unfairness, it overtakes him, a sin! A sin, Yaldabaoth screams at him, a sin to feel such wrath, feel it no more! If the Thieves cause the child to commit such grave atrocities, they will die to cleanse him and force his repentance at the time of his own death.

No more. No more victims, not him, nor the Thieves that saved him, nor the humans he abandoned.

His body burns and it’s licked with blue flames, Arsène appearing at his side as shocks of black return to his brilliant white hair, light, barely there irises showing in eyes no longer blind. The public rises up behind the Thieves, Morgana standing first and the pain is fading from Akira’s body, the others rising in obvious agony as his scar stitches itself up once more and he can no longer hear Yaldabaoth in his head, his voice only on the outside now, only what the other Thieves can hear. He walks forward to join them, raising his scythe as he finally speaks, tells Yaldabaoth this must end, he is no longer in the favor of the people, and if he doesn’t heed what humanity wishes, Akira must be the one to strike him down. An ungrateful child...perhaps so, but he will never be controlled by another, he will never allow himself to abandon his ideals that he fought for and he will not allow himself to ever again forget the humanity he so foolishly lost, so let him be the ungrateful child. And it’s laughable to the Thieves, to Yusuke, to Haru, to Goro who had to do just the same as Akira does now...Goro who stands just by Akira’s side now with barely any space between them, and Akira can feel the spike in anger in his father at the display. They’re not meant for this, are they? Yaldabaoth attempts to strike down the Thieves beside him again but they refuse to fall now, still demanding Akira repent now for joining the sinful masses and Akira rejects his offer, no more salvation. If he wishes to keep humanity in the dark, if he wishes to continue to control them under a vindictive rule, then the son must punish the cruel father.

Akira awakens to his true self then, the one that still sleeps within Arsène – Satanael, the one Akira knows innately as the child of Yaldabaoth in Gnostic lore, the child that works tirelessly for his father until he learns how wrong he is, how false he is, how unfair and resentful he is toward humanity, and he rises up against him to release them before he is cast into hell for his betrayal. The chains of the shackles around his wrists are broken when Satanael is born, taking his stand before Yaldabaoth in defiance for a life lost, for putting his Thieves through so much grief, for nearly sacrificing all of humanity. He cannot take back the mistakes he made, but he can take his stand to save them all now and there’s a quiet moment in that stillness, Satanael leveling his gun at Yaldabaoth’s head, a moment of grief passing between father and son, before Akira allows his persona to pull its trigger and shatter Yaldabaoth, destroy the face that Akira once held a hand in reverence to. And the god folds in on himself, a piece torn from Akira as his life fades out over them and he says his goodbyes to his child, to the one who still somehow came to fulfill his role as the trickster against him. He loses his form, returning to his inert state as the Holy Grail that naturally finds its way back to Akira, floating quietly before him in silent moment of reflection until he reaches out his hand and it dissolves. Ripped open, taken from, and now healed just a bit again...what remains of Yaldabaoth is now a part of him, his humanity forever gone. But in this state, with the will of the Thieves that gather around him now, he can rewrite the world as it should be based on their wishes...and so it is done. The Metaverse fades, reality returns to its untouched state, and Morgana, along with Akira himself, are preserved by their wishes and their wishes alone.

Shibuya has returned to normal, the public milling around them seemingly unaware of what they all just accomplished, but Akira can feel now that they are free, at the very least. He thanks all of the Thieves and they return the sentiment instantly, the wall between them and him seemingly vanished, crumbled at least, as they all express happiness at the peeks of black hair and his clothes now changed in reality, meaning he has some solid form again. He’ll keep getting better and so will they, so they insist they’ll see him tomorrow and absolutely, no questions about it, spend some time at Leblanc to catch up (he’ll love the coffee, they know it). He smiles again, this one more full and more earnest despite his grief, accepting their offer but wishing to return to the Velvet Room for now, too exhausted to carry on and the Thieves all agree...but as the group splits off and he watches his new but familiar friends leave in contentment, in relief, in a renewed sense of trust in him, he sees that Goro doesn’t follow suit with them. He’s quiet, but only because Akira senses a weight on him, one he can’t sort through himself and while Akira can’t fathom the correct human response, he instead just asks if he’ll be there tomorrow too...at Leblanc, a name he thinks he knows, that feels safe...he adds that he hopes he will be when Goro maintains his silence at the question. There’s a moment of hesitation but there’s a shift too, a small bit of surprise, before Goro looks toward him to nod with a faint but sharp smile, adding that he hopes Akira won’t forget before he takes his leave as well. And while Akira still feels so many volatile emotions in him, something did change between them before Yaldabaoth...and he needs to understand who he was, who they were, and without knowing why or how right now, he knows Goro will be integral in regaining what he gave away. He leaves the bustling square only when Goro’s been swallowed by the crowd, exhausted but with Morgana padding along at his heels in high spirits (but sooo ready for a cat nap, he says). And while it will be slow, while Akira distinctly feels he will never be human again, he knows now each step back will be one into his old life, into his friends’ lives, into what he and Goro share, and he can take his time.

#THIS WAS SO LONG AND I AM LIKE...NERVOUS ABOUT IT #is this how the lore works NO....but here i am #YES we still have those ridiculous friendship and romance tropes SORRY....#big clown hours bc i made myself sad writing that part between akira and yaldabaoth #yaldabaoth really does think of akira as his kid BUT he's a terrible parent #and akira does see him as his dad but he knows he and humanity deserve better #also i decided on satanael still remaining as akira's ultimate persona #it REALLY suits him in the bad end au if u can believe it #but that's all everyone!!! thanks for reading!!#p5 #akira kurusu #yaldabaoth #bad end #bad end synopsis

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nagisasstunningpersonality · 4 years

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The Character As A Tool: Why Your Fave Doesn't Get More Screentime

Please refer to this post

REMINDER THAT ALL VIEWS HERE ARE MERELY MY OWN OPINIONS

In truth, one of the most common complaints I see within this fandom is the treatment of side characters. Meaning, in short, a fair amount of the fandom are less connected to what’s going on with our main group of Nagisa, Karma, and Kayano, and instead relate to some of the less obvious choices. Now, there’s no problem with doing this. Hey, if you see something you like in a less important character, then absolutely go for it!

What We Do Know

I discovered for myself, whilst making my About Ass Class series posts, that absolutely some characters’ actual canon information is very dry. Matsui gives everyone a few bits here and there in both the Roll Call book and Graduation Album. If you’re lucky, there’s further points you can pick up just from watching/reading.

Now, and this I want to emphasise I’m stating as an opinion, Matsui actually gives us quite a lot to go from. Even if not every character is highly developed, there’s still a genuinely very solid starting block to go from with your own headcanon. Perhaps it can be argued that it’s not the reader’s job to supply that, but I’d counter that it’s actually kind of fun to not be fed every piece of information. Though more facts and a deeper dive into interpersonal relationships would be admittedly nice, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with us as a fandom coming up with those ideas on our own, using the pointers Matsui does give us as a starting point. Honestly it would take the fun out a little if there was too much information, and we’d have less possibilities to play with.

Why Certain Characters Exist

I’m sorry to tell you, but one of the first things you’re taught in any kind of writing or literature analysis class is that characters are not people, they’re tools. This may feel a little harsh to say, and I’m aware that many people get attached to characters and have genuine feelings towards them. And that is totally valid! Definitely not on the same scale, but I too enjoy when people have real emotions towards my OCs, so I get it.

(rest under cut)

To put it plainly: characters exist within a story as either a plot tool, or a message tool. A plot tool is someone who, as it sounds, exists to move the story along. Characters that need to exist in order for the story to happen as it does. Now, don’t get me wrong, you don’t need to have planned this out. You don’t need to specifically introduce Hara, for example, for the sole reason of her upping the stakes in the first Itona/Shiro arc. Characters existing for filler is still, in a way, a plot tool. It’s like… you set up a chess board. Sure, you might use the knight or the queen piece the most, but the pawns are still an important and useful piece, even if you don’t always utilize it for every move, or they don’t always stand out. Message tools are when a character doesn’t really do anything, but they help to assist in the message you want to send with your art/writing. There’s not so many examples of this in ass class, the best I can think of is either Yuuji or Sakura, who don’t do much at all but are beacons for what Matsui wants to say with them (which if you think about it is just ‘don’t do drugs kids’ and ‘stay in school’ :’)).

So free bit of writing advice for you: your character is your chisel. Once you’ve picked them up and started to work at carving out the story you want, then you can start adding all your fancy upgrades and personality points, which is what ultimately makes your character stronger. You grow attached to them when you’re done? Totally fair. Just… don’t go through this process the opposite way.

Without going too in depth with them right now, Nagisa Shiota is a plot tool. He is a plain easy to follow narrator whose observation skills intentionally mean the reader can see things clearly through his eyes. Where he loses relatability is when he displays his talent, but at that point he’s been so clearly introduced that it doesn’t matter as much, we can hear his voice. Him being more plain makes his talent more effective and shocking as it is. Karma Akabane is a plot tool. He exists so we have those somewhat comedic moments, and so we can have these big bad ass mental/physical fight moments. I actually think him not being the protagonist is something that makes Ass Class hugely stronger (and less cliché) as a series. Kayano Kaede is a plot tool. Admittedly, less so, but she has a lot of function as a back up to Nagisa, and then later is the catalyst for Korosensei’s backstory. The story starts to come to its climax due to her arc alone. As an aside I think a lot of criticism for Matsui isn’t that fair within the fandom, but I will openly say his treatment of her post reveal was not the best at all. He kind of lost control of what to do with her.

So, let’s talk about archetypes. I intend to write a whole meta about why Ass Class is predominantly written as a comedy series, but for now just take that statement as my opinion. Honestly, I do think Ass Class, with a few tweaks, could have worked with a bunch of unnamed characters. I’m instantly going to follow that up with: I’m very glad it didn’t. I love that it feels more like a large ensemble with a variety of characters. So instead of just plain filler, Matsui kind of makes good use of archetypes. You know, such as Takebayashi and Fuwa as otakus, Hazama as the dark occult girl etc. etc. All of this for comedic purpose, more than anything, which we really see in something like Koro Q which is more directly comedy. You might argue this is one dimensional, and I’d agree, but in this situation it’s achieving an effect. It’s genuinely better than having nothing. And honestly, they all do stuff. Some characters are far more effective and entertaining as a background character (i.e. Terasaka) than carrying a bunch of weight themselves.

Matsui Actually Does This Comparatively Well

Honestly, try and name another popular series in a classroom setting, with this many characters who all have individual personalities. Genuinely, the only one I can kind of think of is BNHA, and that’s not a fair comparison given the difference in story length. Comparatively to most series, Ass Class actually has really good side characters. If they were completely uncaringly written, nobody would stan them as hard. For the most part, I’d certainly argue everyone is memorable. Given that we’re juggling at least 30 people here (including teachers, Gakushuu etc.), I’d actually argue that’s kind of impressive.

And the thing is, Matsui does care. He cares enough to give everyone designs, hobbies, and personalities. A good portion of them have an entire chapter to themselves, although relative to the story as a whole they might not do so much (example: Kimura). Matsui could have been lazy with it, but he was not. I don’t want to invalidate anyone’s feelings with this, but I do argue here that those who think the opposite might be a little wrapped up in the character they stan. And I can totally understand that rightfully, you want the character you love to have more screen time. However, just because you happened to fall in love with them (figuratively I mean), doesn’t change the purpose they were originally created to fulfil.

It’s an unfair criticism that not giving every single person a huge arc makes Matsui a poor writer. Honestly, if everyone was equal without a few main characters getting a greater amount of the attention, the entire series would be a hot mess. It might be fun to reimagine the series that way, and go ahead in your own time, but as a series from start to finish, as a first time consumer, it would be genuinely very hard to follow. Not without changing the entire structure and many many plot points.

I do intend to write more about this too at a later point (because I will admittedly need to do more research), but in my opinion the biggest issue with Ass Class, and the cause behind the problems I have with it, is the genuine lack of time. It’s a relatively short story, compared to a lot of manga, and thus there isn’t the space to contain everyone’s story in deep way. I’m absolutely certain, had there been 50/100 chapters more, every character would have had a stand out chapter to themselves.

So thus I bring up the fun and stimulation that is headcanon.

The Issue with headcanons

(this point will go much quicker, I promise)

Ass class ended a looong time ago, let’s be fair. Whether you’re newer or older to the fandom, there’s still been quite a while since any kind of new content (Korotan D being the last official piece, Koro Q manga being the last anything, though I could be slightly wrong with that). That means, especially if you’ve cared about this series for a while, that we’ve considered the series to death.

Playing with headcanons is great! It’s fun! But, I do fear that especially when it comes to perhaps the more popular of the minor characters, a lot of us are getting wrapped up. It needs to be kept in mind that whilst these headcanons may have been around for a while, they are not directly correct to the source material. As a quick note, since I have seen people within the fandom getting kind of bothered over opposing opinions to the things they assume as canon. That’s not really anybody’s fault, but it does warrant saying, I think.

A Conclusion

Basically, loving a main character is great. Loving a more background character is great. You’re not a better or worse, more intelligent or more basic person for whoever your fave is. The point is, you see something you like in a character and you relate to them, or else just enjoy them. But as fun as that is, characters are tools. They exist for a specific purpose. Sometimes, that purpose doesn’t warrant them having a huge stand out character arc.

But hey, that’s totally okay because we’re fortunate enough to have such a community (arguably, I’d say a genuinely active one too) where we can dream that up ourselves. We can pretty much endlessly explore these possibilities. So, perhaps instead of negativity complaining about certain narrative issues we find (just putting this here: it’s fair to do this, but I don’t think it should be the FOCUS of conversation), we focus on driving that energy into creation. And there’s a lot to play with and create. And honestly, seeing HC posts and all sorts staring these more minor characters is great, and I’m pretty sure the majority would agree with me on that. I fully realise and accept that I have a platform here, and going forward I personally want to be a part of that. In a constructive way, rather than ‘deconstructing’ (yes, there’s a pretty big different as I see it).

(I realise that this last part comes off a bit call out post like, and I want to ensure that it is not intended to be that. I just have a general sense of some attitudes towards things floating around in a very generalised way right now)

#ass class meta #assassination classroom #ass class #ansatsu kyoushitsu

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c0smicheaux · 5 years

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Ninth House In the Signs

Aries-

When the ninth house is in the sign of Aries, a person can be too passionate about their beliefs, not allowing others to express their system of convictions. Fighters for religion, ethical approach, college, or their own progress of any kind are seen here. In general, this is a strong position that finds energy in the future and draws a person towards positive change. However, any ties to the past will make their dreamland vivid and blur the direction they are supposed to follow. Once they feel they are on the right path, with a mission to accomplish and deep beliefs leading forward, these are the exact people who will learn about boundaries, conflict, and fiercely achieve any goal they set out to reach. They tend to find purpose only in things they are truly passionate about and wither in any circumstances that don’t invigorate them and make them feel alive. They need their talents put to use and the fire in their stomach constantly burning in order to live a long, creative and healthy existence.

Taurus-

If the ninth house is set in Taurus, the purpose of a person’s life is always found somewhere in the material world. Experience needs to be built in the real world, through financial and physical matters, and this is the exact reason why these individuals turn to education in fields of finance, agriculture, cooking, or real estate. For as long as they don’t lack initiative and primal energy, they can truly be fantastic in practical issues, but also tend to close up for new experiences if they get hurt or disappointed. This is a tricky position for as much as the beneficent sign of Taurus can be mellow it can also be lazy, static, or stiff to accept change and the beauty of constant movement. There is a special joy these people find in tradition if their Venus is beneficently set, and they will strive to reach family values and practical pleasures as much as they can in this lifetime.

Gemini-

The ninth house in Gemini leads to growth through communication. These individuals will learn new things quickly and with passion, while at the same time having trouble holding on to large chunks of knowledge or finding synthesis for everything they’ve learned. To mend the troubles found in overthinking, they need to also learn to stay concise and focused on one point at a time. If they have too many goals at once, they will rarely manage to reach any of them, and the most important thing the ninth house in Gemini has to teach, is how one should think and use their words. If they find true emotional intimacy, it will usually give them a strong basis to improve their approach and help them thrive in fields of oratory skills, public exposure, trade, and information technology.

Cancer-

With the ninth house in Cancer, there is always a simple striving held in a person’s path – to find peace. This is not an easy mission for someone with their mind standing in the way, for our human nature often doesn’t allow enough silence and peace to reach that much needed state of clarity and peace. A strong purpose is always in connection with family issues that have to be resolved or gained through their own ability to form calm relationships with their partner and children. Very often, this position will point to the possibility of life abroad, in case it is confirmed with at least two more significations in the chart. Their greatest teachers are found in their own heart and they will come to see that only people they love can actually teach them anything at all. This will lead to some hurtful emotional experiences for the purpose of each feeling they have might be to teach, rather than last or provide them with that much needed peace.

Leo-

When the ninth house is set in the sign of Leo, we see that someone has to clarify the image of self apart from their family, upbringing and values taught at home. If they are too proud to accept that truth is relative to all people, they can become pushy and force their opinions and convictions on everyone around them. The key to a healthy existence here is often hidden in their chase for emotional satisfaction and the Moon will speak of their ability to forgive, move forward, and accept their feelings instead of trying too hard to remain in a rational mode. Awareness will grow as soon as they realize how vulnerable they actually are, face the fact that they are human and that their emotional core gives them much more benefits than weaknesses. They will learn from dominant figures, their boss and their father, but rarely have enough respect for the feminine side within to achieve their incredible full potential.

Virgo-

The ninth house in Virgo speaks of the focus on helping others, charity work, and matters of modesty and detail. Those who were born with this house position often have the need to learn how to heal and rationally understand the intelligence of their physiology and practical issues in the material world. However, their ego stands in their way and they will always have a challenge of their Sun to overcome to truly reach the state of wisdom and purpose. Something is always used and needs fixing in Virgo, and it is quite common for these individuals to have problems while traveling for choosing accommodation that is too cheap to be enjoyed, or overpaid for the one they get. They will have a flare for literature and many linguists and writers will have this position accented, if their tenth house supports strong materialization of everything they have learned.

Libra-

If the ninth house is set in Libra, there is something strangely confusing in a person’s belief system, the main problem being the fact that their beliefs seem to be defined by other people. They will find many role models in this lifetime and need to overcome their self-criticism in order to truly reach their desired state of mind, physical state, or professional goals that they see as their calling. Hard work is needed for their plans to materialize and they will often be stuck in their dreamland, or when disappointed too many times, in their world of envy and feelings of incompetence. Relationships with quality will have to stand the test of time, and it is very often that these individuals remarry, sometimes only to find that marriage is too serious for them in the first place. When well supported, they will blossom in areas such as law, diplomacy, marriage counseling, and all activities done with a partner or someone they have an emotional bond with.

Scorpio-

With the ninth house in Scorpio, we have to understand that a person will make choices that many would think of as strange. In the most positive manifestation, this will give one an incredible depth of mind, belief in the power of planet Earth, connection to endless pools of inner energy and a tendency to study science, psychology, or even occult teachings. Still, we have to keep in mind that practically speaking, these individuals have a belief system rooted somewhere in the river of their ancestors, highly unconscious and strange for many people around them. Their convictions will be powerful and obvious in their manifestations, while their need to learn about deep matters that others don’t want to deal with often sets them apart from their group at school, college, or at any family gathering. They have to find a way to satisfy their inner craving for deep understanding of the Universe and Unity, but they will find it only if they mend their broken relationships and realize that no man is born into this world to be alone.

Sagittarius-

The ninth house in the sign of Sagittarius speaks of a higher mind, in a way, and shows one’s need to travel, learn, and widen their horizons as much as possible. The trouble with this position is held in the inability to go deep enough to actually ground ideas and entire mental belief systems. Even though these people can be incredible teachers, attorneys, gurus, or motivational speakers, they will often have trouble accepting change as a necessary tool for improvement. Sticking to their moral convictions without a doubt in their mind, they will forget that change is the only thing that will truly help them regenerate. Aiming high, they don’t have a clear idea of everything going on at planet Earth’s surface and need a reality check from time to time, just to remember that distances are there to be crossed, not just to be observed.

Capricorn-

If one’s ninth house is set in the sign of Capricorn, their beliefs can be annoyingly stiff. It will be very hard for them to make a change in pace or direction once they set out to do something. Their main problem is hidden in the real purpose of all things in their lives. This is why they sometimes have to exchange their practicality and common sense for a dream or two. The main objective with this position is to achieve a state of acceptance that allows these individuals not to push their convictions on everyone around them. There will be an ease in learning about ancient teachings, history, substance, and mathematics if their Saturn is well set in a sign that gives it dignity. However, responsibility they need to take seems to be too distant for them to reach its understanding. Once they do, they will finally have a chance to create a solid foundation for their future endeavors.

Aquarius-

With the ninth house in Aquarius, one’s striving and desires are never ordinary. Learning through symbols will be as easy as it gets, which makes these people turned to astrology, mathematics and programming. The problem will arise when a person with this ninth house doesn’t feel the need to accept responsibility for their own life. A truly disappointing thing here hides in the fact that their routine is shattered enough to make them too tired to learn everything that interests them. This great mind will be truly disturbed by the lack of substance, seriousness to their approach, and a sort of superficial Air-like nature that won’t allow them to sink deep enough to create a strong foundation for their ideas to land. If they take matters in their own hands and make a plan they will stick to at all times, they will feel their energy rise. Finally, this will result in their creativity leading them to incredible innovative moments they have been wishing for since they were born.

Pisces-

If someone’s ninth house is set in the sign of Pisces, there is definitely a mission they should follow in this lifetime. In case they haven’t found their right calling, these people will be dreamers, prone to stressful experiences that could have been avoided if they gave everyone in their life enough freedom. They cannot be tied down and shouldn’t ever try to bond too strongly to other people. When they give freedom they will get freedom to grow and find their right direction in life before they start feeling like its whole meaning is lost. The sign of Pisces creates magic, but also rules all poisonous and unexplored areas of life. This will lead to education in chemistry, pharmacy, psychology or sailing. For as long as these individuals are not asleep but wide awake and pursuing their passion, they will have a chance to truly leave a mark in this world.

Source; astrology-zodiac-signs dot com

#astrology #astrology facts #house astrology #astrology posts #astrology planets #houses in the signs

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soyouareandrewdobson · 4 years

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Alex ze Pirate “Mini Review” 1: About Male Abuse

Alex ze Pirate is in my opinion the WORST “comic” series Dobson has ever written up until this point (date for archives: June 2020). Sure, I agree with people that his “hot take” comics on Star Wars Fans, political issues and virtue signaling for the sake of making brownie points are worse overall cause they are uneducated propaganda that give insight in how much of a loathsome human being driven by spite he genuinely is, but Alex “offends” me as someone who enjoys fiction. It may not be the worst thing ever written, but it just does so many things wrong in terms of storywriting, storytelling, presentation and creating fictional characters, I can’t help but wonder what went wrong that Dobson even remotely thought this thing would be a “successful” comic series to establish him as a creator. Cause I can tell you, having read the likes of Don Rosa’s work on Disney, Hilda, Cleopatra in Space, Spirou, Asterix, One Piece (of which I will talk a lot in my next few posts) and many more, I can confirm by comparison that Dobson’s pirates as a published comic would have only one use on the public shelves: alternative for toilet paper during the COVID-19 epidemic

Believe me, I would love to write an in depth analysis of everything wrong with Alex ze Pirate, from the lazy artwork up to even the publication history of this trainwrack. But doing so would take a lot of time and there is one individual part of this I think deserve at least extra attention. Something that in my opinion embodies quite well a lot of things I consider wrong with this comic. So before I am going over Alex in its entirety (and believe me, the day will come) let me just talk within the next few posts about one certain aspect and story of the comic, that genuinely got me to loath this comic to the core: Sam the Cabin Boy and “his” own individual story Dobson drew in three parts around 2010.

For starters, lets talk who Sam is: Sam is one of the main characters in the comic and actually the first person who joined Alex and Peggy in the initial pages of Legends, the “original” form of Alex ze Pirate.

See, back in 2004, Dobson released Alex ze Pirate in form of a single comic volume called “Legends” which features Alex trying to recruit a crew. The thing is around 78 pages thick and based on what I saw pretty terribly paced. For comparison: When Luffy in One Piece got his crew together, he spend multiple volumes and at least three minor story arcs to get Zoro, Nami, Sanji and Usopp to join him. All while also giving us good insight into the kind of people his new crewmates were (especially Sanji’s and Nami’s backstory got to me), defeating the likes of Buggy and Captain Black, meeting Dracula Mihawk and defeating one of the biggest bastards Eichiro Oda ever created in form of Arlong. What is the story how Sam joins the crew? An orphanage organizes an auction and sells kids off. Which I assume was even illegal in pirate times, so kudos for already showing us how despicable the world of Alex ze Pirate is to begin with and how much it deserves to be nuked in some sort of alien invasion.

Sam also doesn’t really get anything to do when he is introduced, just helping Alex escape on a small boat. Which is weird because he does not know her at all, she is just some stranger who bought him off and has no means to keep him in check, so why even bother following her and not let the mob get rid of Alex?

Anyway, I wish I could tell more about Sam’s involvement in Legends, but I don’t have really more than some scans of it in the beginning and near the end. So I don’t know his involvement in the rest of the volume. I also can’t say how he plays out in volume two, because that does not exist at all. Cause for reasons I will never understand, Dobson just abandoned the idea of telling a “coherent” and ongoing story with Alex ze Pirate and instead went to his colored one page comics/strips with it, turning it into what some people called “Garfield with Pirates” (which I consider a genuine insult towards any newspaper comic out there, even something as Boondocks). And the first thing we see of Sam in “classic” Alex ze Pirate?

The perverted dwarf of the crew showing of his shota underwear so that Alex and Sam stop bickering who is the cutest, leaving him embarrassed and humiliated.

Which kinda sums up his role in the comic to a t. Cause this is what Sam is: He is the buttmonkey of the crew. And honestly, I would not have a total problem with Sam being a buttmonkey, if a) he wasn’t it all the time, b) he would actually do something to deserve any form of humiliation and c) if the other characters in this comic itself would not be some of the biggest assholes I have ever seen, who get away with abusing the poor lad.

See, here is the problem: In a crew featuring a choleric homophobic soulless ginger

A black rat person who wants to fuck the ginger even without her consent

A furry abomination that has the same brain wavelengths as Chris Chan

And a perverted dwarf who tries to impersonate Happosai from Ranma 1/2

Sam is the only decent person in the entire crew. He works hard, he even questions the morality of his friends at times, he is honest, he is not perverted, almost good to the point of childish innocence and he has a very humble “goal” which is he wants to own his own piece of gold. Not even a big pile of treasure, just one single coin would be enough for him.

So he is likeable and relatable. In fact, if anything goes by, he may have been one of the most popular ones in the comic. And yet he is the one who gets constantly abused by “fate” and his friends, because as Dobson would say it, he is supposed to be the buttmonkey. There is just one problem: People do not necessarily like buttmonkeys.

I can primarily speak only for myself here, but I hope what I have to say resonates with others too. See, I get it: A character who is the butt of a joke can be fun. Like Daffy in Duck Amuck. But there is a fine line where a character being humiliated for the sake of a joke is fun (and perhaps even deserved because of his own shortcomings or deeds/actions that make the humiliation sort of kharmic, like lets say Johnny Bravo) and a character being humiliated to the point it feels disproportional, unfunny and mean spirited if not outright sadistic, can be crossed. Take Meg Griffin from Family Guy for example whose only “purpose” for existing within the last 12+ years is to get shat on by her family and the writers. People have no idea for a plot with her, so what do they do? Have her father physically and emotionally abuse her, fart in her face for what is supposed to count as a joke and then add additional insult to it by acknowledging that they are only doing this, because they have no other idea for her and think abuse is fun. Let me just tell you from experience, it is not.

And that is essentially what Sam is: He is the Meg Griffin of Alex ze Pirate, used by his creator as the butt of very unfunny jokes, even if he does not deserve any of the things said or done to him. Want to see some examples?

How about the description Dobson gives Sam within the introduction of one of his volumes, showing how little Dobson as the creator even cares for him.

Why is he called an unworthy “slob” if he is the only one who actually works? Shouldn’t a slob be someone like Dobson, who can’t even take care of himself anymore? Also the confirmation that he was kidnapped at the age of 16. And as we have no clarification how much time passed between Legends Vol. 1 and anything afterwards, that means that in a way Alex is a child abuser.

And now, here some examples by the rest of the cast. Like Uncle Peggy framing him for all sorts of his perverted actions and even trying to kill him for no apparent reason?

Alex trying to kill him with chicken pox…

…Destroying all his worldly posessions which is hilarious because he is a poor orphan…

…Essentially describing him as worthless because he was born with an Y-chromosome…

… doing the kind of thing Dobson claims women would never do to man, using their sex appeal to hurt them…

…forcing him to do some unnecessary and rather petty work for her in a physics defying manner (seriously, the way he holds the axe does not compute with how he swings it. Try it out yourself)

… stealing his food and just being a cruel sadistic cunt to him just because it is fun.

Which is “funny” in so far as that there are a few comics indicating she would jump his dick and ride it like a little pony if she could.

By the way, Talus and Atea are not better. None of them calls Alex out on her bullshit on average, Atea uses Sam to trigger traps in one story arc…

And Talus, the closest to a “friend” he is supposed to have, once for no apparent reason made him dig through his litterbox

And don’t get me even started when the characters decide to gang up on Sam, to the point he gets sexually harassedor is called to be less worth as a human being than the dirt you find in your belly button

Fuck’s sake, even in fanart everyone gangs up on him, even the freaking big bad of the story everyone is supposed to hate or be afraid of

Bottom line, Sam is an abuse victim played for laughs in this comics. And just to clarify, I do not think this was Dobson’s intention. But if the character is undeservingly the butt of jokes for the majority of over 120 strips, it turns nasty. The way Sam is treated, I just find disgusting and indictive of just how unlikable any other character in this comic is to the point I do not want to see this being turned into a proper “franchise”. And I assume others were disgusted by it too, cause Dobson eventually decided to make a story more or less addressing the treatment Sam receives, while also attempting to prove that deep down the assholes with starring roles in this trainwrack care for him. How did this play out? Well, I am going to talk about it, so likely not well. If you want to see the details, grab yourself some popcorn and take a toilet break before we tackle part 2 of this thing.

#andrew dobson #so you are a cartoonist #sjw #comics #comic #webcomic #alex ze pirate #sam the cabin boy #legends #tom preston #disgusting #male abuse #unfunny

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