Alright, Wave of Mutilation sneak peek below the cut! I picked something cute but let it be known, there's a lot of angst in this chapter too 😈
There’s a little tremor running under his skin, constant, like static. That’s only until the door opens though, after that it feels like time has stopped. It’s Stu standing in the doorway of this house that isn’t his, looking completely different and exactly the same, and Billy feels an overwhelming heat rushing up inside him.
Fuck.
Stu’s face has been ripped apart and sewn back together, and it’s absolutely breathtaking.
A jagged line of scarring drags down the left side of his face, tearing through his eyebrow and down his cheek, intersecting with another that shreds through his upper lip. There’s a couple more cutting across the bridge of his nose, a few more below his eye and he looks like-
-There’s a shard, a big one buried in his fucking eye, and there’s too much blood, too much swelling and shredded tissue to even see what’s happening underneath. His nose is clearly broken, more glass spiking through the bridge, ripping through his cheek. His upper lip is torn all the way through on one side and there’s so much blood in his teeth-
“H-hi…” Stu pulls him up out of the memory, and there he is, skin and scar tissue and that one blue eye that broke him back in October. God, I missed you, I want you so fucking much, what the fuck did you do to me-
“Stu,” God, he’s supposed to be letting himself do the gay stuff but it still makes his heart thud. His body is already moving though, and suddenly he’s touching Stu’s face.
Stu startles a little, both eyes open wide. One of them is this glossy white glass, and the sight of it aches but it also coils up in Billy’s stomach in a way that decidedly doesn’t feel guilty. He feels like he’s looking at a fucking painting but he can feel the ridges and rifts of it under his fingertips, and it for the first time in a month he feels like he’s here. Every part of him, all at once.
Under his fingers, Stu’s face relaxes. His eyes have fallen closed so those blond lashes fan out against his cheeks, a stark contrast to the rippled red flesh where his skin is healing. There are still marks where the stitches held him together and Billy finds himself tracing them, two fingers pushing against the side of Stu’s throat just a little harder to feel his pulse. God, you’re so hot how are you so fucking hot? How did you get so much hotter? How are you here, how am I touching you, holy-
“Fuck.” He doesn’t mean to say it. Christ, he really forgot how hard this is, and somehow it’s even harder now that he’s letting himself do it. He makes himself drop his hand, has an urge to run away and another to die on the spot, but then he blinks and Stu’s still there, looking at him the way he always has. Fuck, I missed you.
Sempre per la logica di cui sopra vi beccate un video di qualche anno fa nel quale avevo deciso di rompere il cazzo ai Pixies. Tutto questo per preservare l'indecenza.
Born on this day: totally unique post-punk No Wave chanteuse Cristina (Cristina Monet Palaci, 17 January 1956 – 1 April 2020) who made precisely two barbed, weird and distinctive albums - released by the cutting edge Ze label - that flopped commercially and then retired from music. Cristina’s trademark is setting scathing observations to perky music, and she mostly sings and writes within the persona of a jaded party girl or gold digger (a tradition that dates to Mae West and Eartha Kitt). Self-titled debut Cristina (1980) (reissued in 2004 as Doll in the Box) is her mutant disco album. Lushly produced by Kid Creole, it’s campy fun with Latin rhythm in its hips (if you like cowbell, this is the album for you!), but I prefer the 1984 follow-up, the tougher, darker and more cutting New Wave pop of Sleep It Off. Cristina’s venomous, spikily funny lyrics work as wry poetry already, but then she enunciates them in an alienated, deadpan can't-be-bothered snarl (she has “resting bitch voice”, occasionally punctuated with a Johnny Rotten sneer). Here’s a sampling of her wit and wisdom: “My life is in a turmoil / My thighs are black and blue / My sheets are stained, so is my brain / What's a girl to do?” from "What’s A Girl to Do?" is as lacerating as anything found on Lydia Lunch’s 1980 magnum opus Queen of Siam. “Don't tell me that I'm frigid / Don't try to make me think / I'll do just fine without you / Don’t mutilate my mink” from her punk masterpiece “Don’t Mutilate My Mink”. (In their obit, The Guardian describes it as sounding like Audrey Hepburn fronting the Sex Pistols). Like many abrasive early eighties New York punk funk musicians (see also: James Chance of The Contortions), she may initially work best in small doses and for many may be an acquired taste. But think of Cristina as analogous to Campari – once you acquire that taste, you wondered how you ever lived without it. Portrait by Jean-Paul Goude.
no fucking way???? paused my spotify daily playlist earlier to watch those two movies and the same exact pixies track i paused it is in lisafrankenstein.......