#but my hair is greasy so cancels out

[this-doesnt-endd]

My head hurts

[sorrowfulrosebud]

I got idea from your keiko story. What if reader somehow meets kid shigaraki?

ANON. I WANNA KISS YOU SO BAD. (Consensually of course)

Content: reader finds kid Shigaraki and takes care of him (sobs)

Genre: angst, a lot of fluff tho so it cancels out

“Okay, do I have everything? Keys, purse? Yep, looks like I do,” you reassured yourself as you set off to the store. The looming thought of the hot summer sun sent ironic shivers through your body, days lolling about on the couch sleepily when your boss wasn’t demanding every second of your time.

You locked the door hurriedly, determined to stock up on essentials, as well as some treats for your kitten, and set on your way. Your earphones nestled comfortably in your ears, drowning out the whines of crying children and rowdy school students by blaring your favourite music. It was a beautiful day nonetheless, birds twittering softly as the sun beat down on you. Your bag thumped lightly against your side, providing a steady rhythm alongside your music.

The trek was relatively easy; the local convenience store wasn’t even a 10 minute walk from your house and you were soon on your way back to your beloved princess kitten, Freya, with an armful of essentials (plus a few goodies). Music thudded from your earphones noisily, distracting you from looking properly where you were going until you nearly fell over from an unknown obstacle.

“What the hell?!” You were ready to cuss the fucker out, until you looked down.

A small child, couldn’t have been much older than six years old, stared emptily back. No. The look wasn’t empty. It was hollow, as if a child was stuck in a body it didn’t belong in. His hair was a beautiful powder blue, long and stark. It was ashy too, and slightly greasy. You assumed it was from days, possibly weeks, of parental neglect. Some of the thicker strands were matted at the back, and his fringe fell heavily over his face.

When your eyes connected, something shattered deep within your chest. Small orbs that would normally be filled with tears at the idea of being lost were totally empty. Despite the lack of emotion on the poor boy’s face, you could see some small flecks of red amongst the vast space of white.

Blood was everywhere; on his face, deep in his eyebrows, caked under his nails that he held oh so tightly. The poor baby was in trouble, and you were desperate to know why. You removed a headphone and crouched down, placing the plastic bags gently either side of you.

Each move was tentative and slow, like the shivering lamb in front of you was going to bleat and run away.

“Hey there sweetheart, are you lost? Did you lose your parents?” You questioned him softly. The boy tightened up at your question, before tears started to fill his waterline. His hands wrung tightly against each other before lifting one up to scratch his neck.

“I-I didn’t mean it!” He choked out. The tone of his voice caught you severely off guard; instead of being soft or rowdy like a regular child, he sounded strained. Not unlike nails on a chalkboard, you found yourself flinching. The scratching grew more intense as you looked on in anxiety.

“Woah, hey little guy! You could really hurt yourself doing that!” You brought your arm up to stop him scratching, before flinching backwards due to a blood-curdling scream.

“NO, PLEASE DON’T!!” He shrieked, hands covering his grimy face and fell to his sides. The petrified baby was trembling profusely despite having fallen to the ground in his fear. Tears dampened his once dry and crusty cheeks, little torso shaking in heaving breaths.

A beetle that was pottering near his hand’s disintegrated immediately, and the dots started to connect. You paused; you had to be careful about this.

“Okay, sweetheart. I promise I won’t touch you, but you might change your mind after you hear my quirk. Do you want to know what it is?” You remained on his level. Slow, and gentle. Like taming a wild kitten.

This seemed to rouse the boy from his oncoming anxiety attack as he looked at you tearfully. He seemed to consider the idea, before nodding his head dolefully. A large grin overtook your features as you presented your hand.

“My quirk is called equilibrium. It means that I can balance out quirks and maintain a constant state. In exchange for being able to being ‘immune’ to quirks, I usually end up with a killer migraine that lasts a few days. It normally depends on how strong the quirk is, so I don’t really use it a lot. Isn’t that cool?!” You asked him excitedly.

The boy looked at you with curiosity. You let out a small chuckle.

“So, what I’m saying is, you can touch me and I won’t disappear. I promise you,” you solemnly swear to him, extending your pinky finger. Tenko looked at it in pure fear, almost as if the devil himself tainted it.

“I understand that you’re frightened, but you’re dirty, walking around the street with no shoes. I want to help you,” you whispered to him gently. Tenko seemed to light up at your statement.

A tiny pinky extended to you, trembling but still willing. It wrapped itself around you, and you almost shuddered at the texture of his skin. Nonetheless, you continued to loop your fingers around his small hand until you were fully holding his hand. Tenko stared at you with tears pricking his eyes again. He could… touch you?! You smiled softly.

“I told you, see? You can’t hurt me,” you promised. Tenko couldn’t help the tears that trickled down his malnourished cheeks as he dove into a hug. Your eyes widened; just what the hell has this poor baby been through? Your arms shifted under him to cup him closer to you.

“Do you want to come to my house? It’s not that far, so we can get you cleaned up, fed and then find out what to do with you,” you murmured into his ears. Tenko thought for a moment before nodding, his shaggy hair tickling your cheek.

Tenko rearranged himself to wrap his arms around your neck as you grabbed the bags that you previously dropped and nestled his legs around you.

==================================

The journey was only 10 minutes, and yet Tenko had dozed off on the way. His small snores rumbled softly in your ears as you fiddled in your pockets for the keys. Tenko jolted awake at the sound before realising where he was.

“Mph, are we there yet?” He whined sleepily, dry fists rubbing against his eyes. Your cat meowed at the new smell in her home, shaking the sleep off and meowing indignantly.

You set Tenko down with a slight grunt; carrying a small child and 3 grocery bags was not an easy feat. You knelt back down to Tenko’s level and gently rested your hand on his shoulder.

“Now, I need to know your name. I think it’s silly that we don’t know each other’s name, so let’s introduce ourselves before we start calling each other sillier nicknames,” you giggled, earning a small smile from the boy.

“I’m (Y/N), nice to meet you,” you said warmly, holding out your hand. Tenko paused before giving you his hand back.

“I’m Tenko Shimura,” he mumbled back.

“Well Tenko, I think you need a bath. Am I alright to run you one?” You asked him. He thought for a moment before nodding his heavy head.

“Okay, I’ll be right back.”

==================================

The bath water was an absolute godsend to Tenko’s fractured body. The soothing smell of your cherry bakewell scented bath gel calmed Tenko’s nerves as he glanced around the bathroom.

“Is the water alright in there, sweetheart? It’s not too hot is it?” You shouted from your bedroom, gathering soft fluffy towels.

“N-no. Its… nice, thank you,” he tried shouting back, voice cracking. He observed the bath water as he waded his hands through it. Once clear as diamond, the water slowly shifted to a murky brown. Chunks of dried blood dropped into the water, splashing back into Tenko’s face. He let out a whimper; he must look disgusting.

Your soft rapping at the door brought him out of his thoughts.

“Tenko? Am I alright to come in, little lamb? I can help you wash your hair if that’s okay?” You asked him gently.

“U-um… yes please,” he nodded back. You opened the door and smiled at him to reassure his jolting nerves.

“You’re certainly looking cleaner, little lamb! Look at the colour of the tub!” You giggled before feeling your heart pang at the tears forming in Tenko’s eyes.

“Oh no, I’m sorry sweetheart. I didn’t mean to make you upset,” you rubbed his hair to comfort him. Tenko’s eyes grew wider as he started to sob louder in the tub. The feeling of something so simple as rubbing his head when he’s sad was so alien to him. God, you hated whoever did this to him.

“That’s it my little lamb, let it out. That’s a good boy, just cry until you can’t any more,” you crooned sympathetically, rubbing his head and wiping away tears.

And so, Tenko did just that. Cried. He cried until no more tears would come out, he cried until his head started to hurt, he cried for everything. For his mother, for his sister and for Mon. And oh, how he cried for his dog who provided more comfort than any member of his family.

==================================

When Tenko woke up again, he was bundled up in blankets on a couch that felt worlds different than the leather one at his house. This was soft and warm, with needlefelt and crocheted cushions. He lifted his sleepy head up before jolting his hands away. But the crumbling of the couch never came.

Tenko glanced down and was met with a small pair of winter gloves, cut so that Tenko’s fourth and pinky finger were concealed.

“Ah, you woke up! You worried me for a second there, little lamb. You kinda passed out on me in the bath, so I cleaned you up and bundled you up on the couch,” you rambled on as you set down a glass of milk for him.

“Here sweetheart, drink up. You must have hurt your voice badly,” you nudged it to him as he readjusted himself comfortably.

“T-thank you,” he mumbled brokenly, voice still strained from all of the crying. He took the first gulp before realising just how thirsty he was. Next thing you knew, the glass was empty as Tenko huffed and puffed.

“Wow little lamb, you must have been thirsty, hmm? I’ll bet you’re hungry too?” You guessed. Tenko nodded his head quickly, scared that you’ll pull back your offer. You smiled at his slight change of demeanour.

“That’s alright, I’ll go make you something now. How does Katsu curry sound?”

Tenko’s eyes lit up.

“T-that sounds good thanks,” he mumbled happily, playing with his fingers shyly. You nodded at him and told him to get comfortable.

As you cooked, Tenko remained on the couch and looked around. Your apartment was cozy, filled to the brim with trinkets and photos of your friends and family. Soft knitted blankets dotted around the room, a large scratching post for your cat as well as numerous toys.

Tenko jumped as he felt a slight shift in the couch. The small black, white and grey cat he saw earlier was staring at him, sizing him up for a moment before nestling into his side. She kneaded the blanket that pooled around his knees, purring away.

Tenko thought for a moment before tentatively stroking the gap between her ears, pleased when the purring increased tenfold.

“I see you’ve become friends with my cat,” you giggle as you present two steaming bowls.

“She’s lovely,” he murmured shyly, petting her a little more confidently. You hummed in acknowledgement as you set the bowls down as well as some cutlery.

“Now, eat up. Then, we have to go to the police and see what happens next,” you smiled at him as ice flooded his blood.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re only a child, and you clearly didn’t mean to kill anyone. I’ll have to check if you have any more family that can take you in,” your tone softened as you looked at Tenko’s face.

“I-I don’t have anyone else. A-all of my f-family was in the… the-,” he started crying again, gloved hands coming to reach his neck. You took his hand in yours and rubbed it soothingly, before lifting him up and placing him in your lap. Tenko buried his face into your neck and sobbed whilst you stroked his hair.

“I know, little lamb, I know. If that’s the case, then I’m going to look into adopting you myself, if that’s what you want?” You looked at him as you asked him.

Tenko’s eyes lit up before dimming again.

“B-but my quirk hurts people. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me. I’ve already hurt so many people,” He whimpered. Your heart ached looking at the young boy.

“My quirk is perfectly compatible with yours, and as long as you wear those gloves then you have no reason to worry. You’ve already seen just how mean people can be with people with a quirk like yours. If you stay with me, then I can protect you and help you,” you lifted Tenko’s chin to meet his eyes.

“Sweetheart, it’s a cruel, mean world for people who society deem ‘villains’. You have been hurt and ignored by these people, and I want to make sure that doesn’t happen again. You’re only a small boy, you didn’t deserve what happened to you. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault. I can help you learn to control your quirk to prevent accidents like this again. I know it hurts now, but we can get through this. I’ll be there for you every step of the way.”

Tenko flung himself deeper into your chest and sobbed until his throat was raw. In the past few hours, you had shown him such kindness that it overwhelmed him, on a level that only his mother dared display. Throughout the day, you had a warm glow radiate from within you. Tenko knew he wouldn’t have anyone else look after him.

You cuddled Tenko closer to you as he settled down.

“Now, let’s eat before the food goes cold,” you smile.

“Okay mama.”

==================================

“Tenko? Tenko, hurry up! You’re gonna be late for your first day!” You yelled up the stairs to your adopted son.

“I know, ma! I can’t find the extra pair of gloves you gave me,” he yelled back, rootling the Eraserhead backpack you gifted him. It was his first day at UA Hero Academy, and your nerves were just as shaky as his. He eventually found them, relieved at the sight as he readjusted his tie agitatedly.

“Do you have everything? Lunch, your creams, your throat spray?” You fussed over him, straightening his tie and smoothing his blazer lapels.

“Damn ma, you were rushing me out the door and now you’re gonna make me late,” he groaned, but cracked a light smile.

You looked at him. He had improved so much since you first took him in. His hair was cleaner, his skin had better creams, his lips were smeared in soothing lip balms and his allergies were nearly a thing of the past. The thought of the young, helpless boy you took in using his once destructive power for the better of society brought tears to your eyes.

“H-hey, don’t get all emotional ma! What’s the matter?!” He fussed, stopping when you smile at him.

“I’m so proud of you, Tenko. More than you’ll ever know. Now, go be the best hero that anyone has ever seen in UA!” You wiped your tears as you hugged your son, feeling him tremble slightly in return.

“Thanks ma. For everything.”

[harryforvogue]

Maybe something for Harry and Yasmine where she takes care of Harry? Like he gets super sick or something. I feel like she would love the chance to look after him bc he is always so caring towards her

Harry leans on the counter, his eyes heavy but open enough to watch Yasmine pour some medicine into a tablespoon. She brings it over to his mouth, hovering it in the air with another hand under the spoon to catch any drops.

He smiles, leaning in with his mouth open. The medicine goes down his throat smoothly, but he can’t help but pull a grimace. “You know,” Harry says after a cough, “the medicine comes with a measuring cup.”

“My mom always would pour it into a tablespoon. It was the perfect measurement. You’ll just have to take it a little more frequently, but that’s better than waiting six hours. You wouldn’t want me waking you up in the middle of the night right?”

She turns away to the sink to wash the spoon. Harry slinks forward, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, putting his burning cheek against her cold one. He groans appreciatively. “I never mind you waking me up.”

Yasmine’s hands falter briefly before finishing up. She puts the spoon aside and leans back against him. “You’re too warm, Harry. You need to rest.”

“Why are you avoiding saying I’m hot?” he grumbles back playfully against her neck. 

Yasmine shivers, running her hands over his strong forearms. “I’m serious, Harry. Come.”

She manages to wrestle out of his hold (despite his state, he’s still got a mean hold), taking his burning hand. She leads him to the living room, shaking him off when he latches himself back on her frame. He lands on the sofa, tilting his head back with a congested sigh. “I’m not tired,” he says, sounding both nasally and childish.

“I’m not telling you to sleep.” She takes a nearby blanket, wrapping him up in it, tucking the ends under his chin. His green eyes watch her movement carefully. “I need you to sweat this out.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Can you not talk so sexy to me?”

Yasmine rolls her eyes and sits beside him, grabbing a pillow. She puts it on her thighs and then pats it. “Come.”

Harry doesn’t need to be told twice. He all but flies closer to her, lifting his legs to lay horizontally, resting his head on her leg. Instead of facing away, however, he presses his nose to her stomach and sighs again.

“What hurts?” Yasmine says, running her fingers through his hair. The sweat has made it go slightly greasy, but she doesn’t care.

“My head.”

So Yasmine gently starts rubbing his temples. He hums with relief, closing his eyes. 

“I’ve still got to cancel class.”

She says, “I’ll handle that.”

“Mm. My email is open on my laptop. Be nice to them.”

“I am nice,” she scowls.

“Mhm.”

Yasmine continues to rub his head, dipping down to his neck and shoulders to hear that groan of relief. He sneezes once, and then spends the next several minutes shivering.

“When I was younger,” Yasmine says softly, thumbing through his eyelashes, “and I had a terrible fever, my mom would wet some paper towels and put them on my forehead and under my arms. If you continue to get sicker, I’ll have to do that.”

“Mmmm.”

“It always felt really good, but I think that was only effective to bring my body temperature down. I was still sick afterwards.” When her hand rubs his back, he breathes deeply. “Maybe you have strep. Let’s go to the clinic tomorrow.” 

Harry opens his eyes tiredly, going against all his big talk from moments ago. “I’m perfectly satisfied with my hot girlfriend nursing me back to life.”

Despite herself, Yasmine smiles, cupping his warm cheek. “I can only do so much, you know?”

He takes her hand, kisses it, and tucks it under his chin for safe keeping. “You do more than enough for me on any given day,” he says hoarsely, turning his head in to cough. “Just seeing your face is so…so–” he coughs and coughs and coughs, “nice.”

“It was real hard to say that huh?” Yasmine laughs quietly, and at the sound of her laugh, Harry looks back up at her. 

“My throat hurts so bad.”

She can’t help it, so she says, “My poor big baby.”

“You act as if you’re on your deathbed when you have a cold, Yasmine.”

“I don’t need to be coddled though.”

Harry gives her a meaningful look. “Yasmine, I have to block off my calendar when you get sick. It’s like there’s a tornado in my house. You are so incredibly clingy and annoying, it’s like an alter ego or something.”

Yasmine says, “All right, that’s enough.”

Some quiet moments pass by with Yasmine just caressing Harry’s face. Then he says, “I want an ice cold coke right now.”

“Keep dreaming,” she answers.

“I want those cold spicy noodles you make.”

“Nope.”

“And an ice cube to munch on.”

“Nope.”

“I want to pinch your cheek so hard.”

That startles Yasmine, but she recovers quickly with her signature frown. “I hate when you do that. It hurts.”

“Good.” He smiles slightly.

She goes back to massaging his head. At some point, her legs go numb, but that’s around the time Harry’s breathing evens out, signaling he’s asleep. She lets him stay there, admiring his face and curls as she scratches at his scalp, wishing she could bend down far enough to kiss him.

“I love you,” she murmurs to his sleeping form, giving his curls a gentle tug. He shivers, as if the message has reached him even in his sleep.

[octuscle]

Can you transform my life into Zac Ansley’s?

The interesting thing about influencers is that they often don't do one thing at all: Influence things or people. Take this young, handsome man with this incredibly toned body. He has a staggering 1.3 million followers. How many of them have anything like his body? And how many only use his Instagram profile to secretly jerk off in the loo during their lunch break? The ratio is probably 10 to 1.2 million or so…

You're no exception, let's be honest… You have a little paunch, your favorite pastime is eating chips on the sofa while watching series on Netflix with one eye open. And watching Zac's new fitness videos with the other eye. Have you ever seriously thought about copying one of his exercises? Even getting into a barrel of ice-cold water? Buying any of the nutritional supplements he advertises? Actually, the answer is three times no. And at the age of 42, you probably won't change a thing…

You wipe your greasy fingers from the chips on your dirty wifebeater. And start wanking your puny cock. But maybe it was a beer or two too many. A few minutes later, you're lying on the sofa, snoring.

Zac gets up at 06:00 in the morning. You want to top that. The alarm clock is set for 05:45. And even if it takes some effort: By 06:00, you've eaten your high-protein muesli and you're on your way to the gym. Inspired by Zac's training plan, you start your chest workout. Shit, you're really out of shape. But no master has fallen from the sky. As you wipe the sweaty hair from your forehead after a really strenuous workout, you have the feeling that your receding hairline is getting better… And is the hair that grows back blonde?

You get lots of compliments at work. Have you lost weight? That your skin looks much better. A colleague even whistles after you and says with a grin, "Nice ass, buddy!" During your lunch break, you heat up your chicken and rice in the microwave and drink a large protein shake with it. And you cancel your colleagues' plans to go to the pub after work. You can make better use of your time. So you go to the gym and make sure your ass is even tighter.

Get up at 05:00, have breakfast, walk to the gym with your rucksack on your back and get your muscles burning. You can't imagine any other way to start the day. And your more than 12K followers are craving new selfies of you on the weight bench or posing in front of the mirror in the locker room.

At the office, you have the image of a fitness nerd. Even though you've been working out for an hour and a half, you're one of the first people in the office, you're always perfectly dressed and your hair is always in perfect condition. No one can remember the last time you were sick. And quite a few people think that, at just 38 years old, you only have your perfect body to thank for your position as division manager. Okay, there are also rumors about the size of your cock and that it also helped you climb the career ladder.

During lunch (chicken, rice and brocolli) you go live and give a few nutrition tips. You let your pecs dance under your tight shirt. If all goes well, you'll break the 25K followers barrier today.

At 6 p.m., your Indian intern knocks on the door. He has already swapped his suit for workout clothes. He asks if you're ready and if you can go to training. You tell him that you only need ten more minutes and that he should close the door behind him. A damp stain forms in his pants.

05:00 a.m. First, the obligatory Instagram check. Yes! The one million mark has been broken! There's actually no time for this in your routine, but you have to wank your morning wood. To celebrate the day. But then you quickly have breakfast and go to the gym, the first post has to be out at 06:00, you have to keep your followers in line.

When your team shows up for the new YouTube videos, you're really pumped. Just like your fans love you. "Lads, lasses, hoy! Today we're gan te mek yor triceps an' chest proper radge!" Hey, you are a proper lad from Northumberland. You talk the way you talk. Most of your followers like you for not speaking nasal Oxford English.

05:00 p.m., end of the day at the gym. The video turned out great. You've fed Instagram with a new reel. You're on your way to an interview with Status Fitness Magazine. And then you have to go to a swimwear shoot. It's going to be another damn long day. Not bad for someone who was told by the doctor just 12 years ago that you urgently need to get your act together if you don't want to die with a fatty liver. But damn, you've got your act together. And you did it damn well!

[perplexingluciddreams]

I have barely even started growing my hair, and already I am thinking I need to cut it (which means buzz my head again).

The bits at my ears is too long, and really bothers my sensory issues when I wear my noise-cancelling headphones. Unfortunately, the headphones is non-negotiable because my sound sensitivity is so much that I can barely sit in my quiet bedroom without being bothered by other house sounds and people sounds and outside sounds.

I am so upset about this. I really want long hair.

I am even more upset that I don't even get the choice. My disabilities decide for me, for so many things. I just want to choose. I have no control over even the smallest of things.

Today will be my last attempt to find a balance of wearing my headphones a bit less, to see if that can help the around-ear-hair-sensory-bad-ness.

But even if I manage to keep going for another week or month or few months (unlikely), I think at some point I will start having violent meltdowns because of the hair again. Especially when it is wet in the bath, or when it is greasy. I already still struggle with those sensations even when it is a centimetre long. And even if the meltdowns are not a problem to consider, it feels so bad that I am miserable.

I just wish I had the choice, for this one small thing.

And through all of this, my chest is still there. Still large and heavy and causing pain and sensory issues and worsening clothing-related sensory issues. It makes my thoughts so negative and angry and I get irritable and so unhappy.

I usually like to try and see both sides (positive and negative) and think logically about a situation. But this one is so overwhelmingly negative that I often can't see a positive. Sensory issues is only one aspect of my autism, and on its own it is so disabling.

I can get so upset about these so called "little" things, because the control is so completely out of my hands for the big things that I don't bother to think about them. I only want to be able to grow my hair - I don't think that is a big ask. Yet I am still too disabled to do even that.

[labellefleur-sauvage]

DILF Daydreamin'

Lucien would be a great dad, Elain thought suddenly. The image of him holding and caring for their eventual children came completely unbidden to her mind, like a metaphorical bell that wouldn’t stop ringing in her ears. He’d be so sweet and supportive and fun-

Woah, settle down girl, Elain thought. You’ve only been dating him for a few months. One afternoon babysitting your nephew isn’t enough proof that Lucien would be a good dad, if he even wants that.

Elain discovers she likes the idea of making Lucien a DILF. Elain also discovers that Lucien likes the idea of Elain making him a DILF.

For @elucienweekofficial 2023 Day 7: This smut! I have no excuses. The title gives you everything you need to know (full tags are on the AO3 link), so don't say I didn't warn ya. Thank you for the event organizers for making Elucien Week 2023 so much fun!

Rating: Very Explicit

Words: 4K

Read on AO3

XXX

“God, Elain, you’re a lifesaver.”

Elain Archeron stood in the foyer of her sister and brother in law’s once pristine house, a slight grimace on her face. She understood why Feyre had called her the evening before, sounding exhausted and trying to sound desperately like she wasn’t begging Elain to babysit her nephew so she and Rhys could have a few hours of blissful silence to clean and sleep. Feyre stood in front of her now, looking just as weary as she sounded. 

“He’s a precocious boy, isn't he?” Elain hummed as she surveyed the damage around her. A brown blob she prayed was chocolate was splattered on the tile floors, paint scribbles decorated the white walls, small Lego bricks formed a veritable minefield in the hallway all the way to the kitchen, and other random toys—plastic cars, a stuffed bat, picture books—littered any open space on the floors and furniture around her.

“Geez,” a deep voice said behind Elain. “For a little guy, he sure can cause a lot of destruction, huh?”

Elain tilted her head and smiled softly as her boyfriend Lucien stood behind her and looked over Nyx’s path of destruction. They were still in the honeymoon phase of their new relationship, and Elain had been worried when she called him last night to cancel the picnic in the park they had planned for the next day.

“We can just bring him with us,” Lucien responded easily. “He can’t be that difficult to manage. He’ll wear himself out, I’m sure.”

Now Elain wondered if perhaps Lucien may have underestimated the task ahead of them.

“He got into my painting supplies,” Feyre said, watching Lucien’s eyes settle on the walls. “He was so excited to show me his little masterpiece this morning.”

Elain grinned. “Maybe you have another painter on your hands.”

“More like another agent of chaos, like his father,” Feyre said conspiratorially. “Come on,” she motioned, waving Elain and Lucien into her house, “we have everything in the kitchen. We already have everything packed—don’t worry, that’s just chocolate—including food, toys, extra clothes, all that. He has a little bit of eczema on his arms, so we can only use this special sunscreen on him—it’s in the bag. Oh, and he still doesn’t quite understand that not every puppy is friendly, so if you see any dogs around, keep an eye on him so he doesn’t run and try to make a new friend. Here he is!”

They entered the kitchen to see Rhys strapping Nyx into his car seat. Her brother in law’s normally perfectly styled hair was disheveled and greasy looking. His white shirt had no less than four distinct, suspicious stains, and his gray sweatpants were ripped in several places. He had the same tired, wan complexion as his wife, though his face brightened like Feyre’s did when she saw Elain and Lucien.

“Our saviors!” Rhys grinned. “I’ve already told Nyx that he’s going to the park today and he has to be on his best behavior, so I hope that’s still the plan,” he said, looking nervously between Elain and Lucien. 

“It is,” Elain said brightly, standing in front of Nyx in his carseat. “We’re going to have so much fun today, aren’t we!” She tickled his belly and he clapped his hands excitedly. 

“Lain, lain!”

“And we have someone else joining us today,” she said, dragging Lucien over to stand next to her. “Nyx, this is Lucien.”

“Hey buddy,” Lucien said softly, grinning at Nyx. “We’re gonna have a lot of fun at the park today.”

Nyx stared solemnly at Lucien but perked up when he heard the word ‘park.’ He smiled and squirmed in his car seat. 

“Go, go!”

“His new favorite word,” Feyre said. “Which means it’s probably time for you three to head out, unless you want a full blown tantrum soon.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Elain said as Lucien grabbed the handle of Nyx’s car seat and started wading back through the trenches to the front door. 

“He has a lot of energy!” Feyre called after them. 

“We got it!” Elain called back.

“He’s one toddler, how bad could it be?” Lucien asked as he buckled the car seat into his SUV. “Right, my man? I bet you’ll be ready for a nap after an hour of playing.”

Apparently, Nyx was up for the challenge.

“How is he… still going?” Lucien puffed weakly, his hands on his knees as he tried to recover his breathing. “He just won’t stop. What is that kid running on? He hasn’t eaten in hours!”

“I’m hungry just watching him,” Elain panted. She was in her nicest yellow sundress and wasn’t able to keep up with her nephew and Lucien, but she was trying her hardest. They had been at the park for nearly three hours and Nyx hadn’t stopped running since his little feet hit the grass. They had already gone down every slide in the huge park a dozen times, ran and jumped over every piece of playground equipment they could find, rode the old fashioned carousel twice, played in the decommissioned old fashion fire truck—though Nyx was too afraid to go down the firepole, even in Lucien’s arms—and had wandered down to the pond to feed the ducks and geese. 

“I should have put my Apple Watch on him, see how many steps he’s taken.” Lucien wiped the sweat off his forehead. 

“I don’t think we’ve invented a number that high.”

“Loo! Loo!”

Nyx was standing next to a baby swing seat, thumping his chubby hand against the plastic.

“Loo! Go, go!”

“Impressive,” Elain smirked. “You already have a nickname. And he wants you to push him on the swing.”

“Lain and Loo,” Lucien said, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing her briefly. “We should get matching couple shirts.”

Elain hummed happily as butterflies tumbled in her stomach at his suggestion. “Go on, go play with Nyx for a bit and I’ll get everything for the picnic ready.” She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and pushed him away playfully when he went back for another kiss.

She took her time setting up a picnic table with all their food, then ambled her way towards the swing set. Lucien was excitedly pushing Nyx in a chair-style swing, her nephew’s chubby little legs waving in the wind. Every now and then Lucien would duck to the side of the swing and pop up right in front of Nyx, much to his glee. His shrieks of laughter rang through the air as Lucien laughed right along with him, and Elain lost her breath.

Lucien was stunning. He had put his long red hair in a ponytail and his golden brown skin was flushed with the summer heat and the exertion of pushing Nyx. His biceps bulged with the effort and his shirt revealed a bit of trailing red hair on his toned stomach as it rode up whenever he lifted his arms. 

All of his attention was on Nyx, though. Lucien looked genuinely happy to be pushing his girlfriend’s nephew for the hundredth time. He didn’t look annoyed or put out that the picnic he had painstakingly planned for the two of them now included an energetic toddler. Her boyfriend’s eyes were filled with excitement, his smile big and bright, his enthusiasm contagious. 

Lucien would be a great dad, Elain thought suddenly. The image of him holding and caring for their eventual children came completely unbidden to her mind, like a metaphorical bell that wouldn’t stop ringing in her ears. He’d be so sweet and supportive and fun—

Woah, settle down girl, Elain thought. You’ve only been dating him for a few months. One afternoon babysitting your nephew isn’t enough proof that Lucien would be a good dad, if he even wants that.

But the images wouldn’t go away. Like it was right in front of her, she could see Lucien pushing a redheaded girl in a swing, her hair blowing in the breeze, or going down a slide with a little boy with her brown curls. It was all so clear and so lifelike. He’d be so kind and gentle and nurturing to their kids. 

“Earth to Elain. Hey! Elain?”

Elain blinked. Lucien was giving Nyx a few weak pushes and staring at Elain with a furrowed brow.

“You alright? You were kind of staring at us and zoning out.”

“Uh huh,” she said noncommittally. That was embarrassing; they were still so new together, and the topic of potential future families hadn’t come up yet. 

“You sure? You look a little flushed.”

“Just the heat!” she replied with a fake grin. “Come on you, time for food.” Elain plucked Nyx out of the swing and put him on her hip, refusing to look Lucien in the eyes. “Your mommy packed you all your favorites,” she told Nyx, pinching his red little cheeks. “Goldfish and applesauce and berries.” Nyx smiled at her and Elain took that as a sign he might actually eat some food. 

She turned and headed to their table. “I could eat a horse,” she said. “I’m really glad we packed a whole bag of those barbecue potato chips.” 

The only reply was Nyx’s little babbles. Elain looked around—Lucien wasn’t with her. Turning back, she saw him standing by the swings, staring after Elain with a dazed and surprised look. 

“Is the heat getting to you too?” she called back to him. 

Lucien’s eyes darted up to hers before he ran his hands over his face. “Yeah,” he called back, making his way towards them. “Guess I forgot what it felt like to stand still.”

By the time they finished their food and went for one last ride on the carousel, Nyx finally started to slow down. They went down a few of his favorite slides before packing everything up and heading back to Feyre’s house.

They returned a napping Nyx to his refreshed parents and a much cleaner house, then made a hasty retreat back to Elain’s apartment. She thought her and Lucien would have a quiet evening consisting of takeout food and Netflix, before going to bed early so they could recover from their tiring day. 

Taking energy inspiration from Nyx, her boyfriend had other ideas. 

Lucien had carried her to her bedroom and unceremoniously dumped her on the bed, tearing off her clothes, and was currently between her thighs, his tongue making clever twists and turns over her folds. He was good at everything in bed, but he seemed to take a particular shine to eat Elain out. 

“Fuck!” Elain gasped as one of his fingers entered her slick channel, her eyes fluttering close. He thrust his finger inside her as his stiff tongue flicked the head of her clit. She was so close, and she wanted to come on his face before coming on his cock. All she had to do was lay back and relax. 

Instead, her mind wandered. She thought of the casual strength Lucien had displayed when he carried her to bed, and the warm smile on his face, and was instantly reminded of Lucien pushing Nyx on the swing, how good he was with her nephew, and how natural caring for a child came to him. 

He crooked his finger just right inside her and a bolt of lightning shot down her spine. “Oh fuck Daddy, yes!”

Lucien stopped moving completely and it took a few seconds for Elain to register the silence in the room. She whined and thrust her hips up towards his face, her oncoming orgasm swiftly departing, when she finally opened her eyes to look at him. His eyebrows were raised, eyes wide, and what she had blurted out suddenly came back to her.

“Oh God,” Elain whispered, mortified. 

“That wasn’t what you just called me,” Lucien quipped, unable to keep a smirk from his face as he pulled his finger from her cunt.

But this was no laughing matter. She had just called her boyfriend of only a few months—a few months! They weren’t even living together!—Daddy, one of the kinkiest things she could imagine. This might even be too much for Lucien to handle, freak that he was. 

Sex with Lucien was great. He was enthusiastic, listened to her, wanted her to have as many orgasms as possible, and had the stamina of a racehorse, with a cock to match. He was the complete package—no pun intended—and she had just called him Daddy. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. 

“I’m sorry!” Elain moaned, covering her beet red face with her hands. “I don’t know where that came from!”

Lucien hummed and kissed her inner thighs. “I can hazard a guess. Maybe the sight of seeing me with Nyx today made your brain think of me with our future kids. Less Daddy kink and more… DILF kink.”

Shoot. Her. Now. She was not having this discussion, preferably at all, but especially not with a new boyfriend. 

Elain shuddered and fought to keep her breathing steady. She didn’t trust herself to answer. She peeked out from behind her fingers. Lucien stared up at her, an eyebrow cocked, waiting for an answer. 

“Um, y-yeah, I guess,” she stuttered out. “Just a weird, one time, slip of the mind. Biological clock is ticking, and all that.”

“It doesn’t have to be one time.” 

Oh, god. Why was Elain surprised that Lucien would be into this? She had quickly learned over the course of their relationship that he was a certified freak in the sheets. The difference was, he had been the one who always brought any new kinks into the bedroom. Elain wasn’t sure if she wanted her first foray into kink to be calling her boyfriend Daddy without any prior discussion on the topic.

“I saw you today, watching me with Nyx.” Lucien’s voice had gone deeper, his eyes hooded. He trailed the tips of his fingers over the soft skin of her inner thighs and hips, and Elain shivered. “At first I just thought you were worried I’d drop him or something. But then,” he suddenly thrust two fingers into her heat and Elain gasped, “I noticed you giving me that same look you have on right now.”

“And what look is that?” Elain was torn: she desperately wanted Lucien to continue, but her own embarrassment made her want to crawl away and hide for a week. 

“Your ‘fuck me now’ look,” he said, thrusting his thick fingers in and out of her pussy. “Your eyes get all hazy and you bite your lip and you start squirming, like you need my hard cock in you or you’ll go crazy—yeah, just like that. And seeing me with Nyx made you that way, hm?”

“Lucien, please,” Elain whimpered. 

“Please what? Answer me: did seeing me with a baby turn you on?”

“Yes,” she groaned, mortified. She closed her eyes. 

“Good, because seeing you like that was so fucking hot.”

Elain gasped as Lucien withdrew his fingers from her body and manhandled her so she was on her knees and elbows, her ass in the air. He settled in behind her and knocked her knees further apart with his own. She was vibrating with anticipation as she felt his hard length between her legs. 

“Seems you're not too embarrassed now, huh?” Elain couldn’t see his face but knew Lucien was grinning slyly at her. 

Elain huffed and merely arched her back even further, sticking her ass up closer to him. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” Elain yelped, blushing at her reaction. 

“Then use your words. What do you want?”

“I want you in me.”

Lucien scoffed. “Is that all? That’s not very original.”

She groaned in embarrassment and buried her head in her pillow. “I want you to come in me,” Elain mumbled, speaking more into the bed below her than Lucien over her.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you,” he cooed in a sing-song voice. 

Elain gritted her teeth. She didn’t mind being teased but she was quickly growing frustrated that she hadn’t come yet and that Lucien appeared to be making light of her embarrassment.

“I want you to fuck me and I want you to come in me!” she snapped, looking over her shoulder to glare at Lucien. 

He gave her a cocky grin. “Was that so hard?” Not giving her time to answer, Lucien shoved her face down into the bed and ran his cock over her slick folds. 

“God, you’re so perfect Elain,” he groaned, notching the fat head of his cock at her pussy. “But you know what?” Lucien leaned down to whisper in her ear. She shivered. “Seeing you holding a baby on your hip today made me think all the same things you were thinking about me.” He sunk into her slowly, letting her adjust to his girth before withdrawing and sinking just a little bit deeper inside her. “Made me wonder what our kids would look like, how you’d look holding them.”

Elain gasped for air as Lucien finally settled all of his cock inside her, stretching her out and filling her. She took several uneven, heaving breaths, not only from his length, but the realization that Lucien had the same dirty fantasies as her. She relaxed in the knowledge that he wasn’t disgusted by her—quite the opposite, apparently—and wriggled her hips in an unspoken gesture to move. 

Gripping her hips and cursing quietly to himself, Lucien set a fast pace, his powerful hips snapping against her ass. Elain moaned and hung her head between her arms. Lucien always seemed to know exactly how she wanted to be fucked, how hard he needed to go or whether she wanted something slower. 

He gave a rough thrust and she yelped. God, it felt like his cock was halfway in her stomach. She clenched around him and Lucien’s answering moan made her tremble. He fucked her even faster, and Elain gripped her duvet cover so hard she thought she might tear it if she wasn’t careful. This was absolute perfection. Lucien was absolute perfection—

“Have you thought of it before? Me as a DILF?”

Well, maybe not. Elain snorted and laughed through her moans. He was still fucking her roughly, though he slowed down to laugh with her at his ridiculous statement. 

“I haven’t before,” she said, turning to look back and up at him and grinning. “But I’m definitely going to now.” 

Lucien grinned and leaned down to kiss her shoulder, placing a solid hand over hers on the bed and lacing their fingers together. His other hand wandered down to her lower stomach and pressed against her, his cock leisurely stroking in and out of her tight depths. 

“Not now, but maybe one day, you’ll make me a dad, yeah?” His breath was warm against the shell of her ear. “Let me come in you until it takes, right here?”

“Yes, yes,” Elain whimpered, screwing her eyes shut at the dirty image his words conjured in her mind. She knew he loved coming in her, but she thought, like most men, Lucien just had a fascination with his come, not a full on breeding kink. His words sent flutters throughout her lower belly and Lucien moaned as her pussy tightened around him. His hand on her stomach moved between her legs and slowly started caressing her clit as he fucked her, his hips rutting into her as he hunched over her. 

“Say it.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Fuck, Elain, I need you to come now.” His fingers circled her clit as thrust into her, his breathing harsh between her shoulder blades. “God, please say you’re close.”

There were too many sensations within and around her: Lucien’s warm hand holding her own, the wet smacking of their flesh joining, his rough fingers on her clit, and his cock hitting her so deep his come wouldn’t have far to go if he really was trying to knock her up. 

It was that sudden realization that did her in. With a final strangled gasp Elain came, her walls fluttering and squeezing Lucien’s cock so hard that he came only a moment later. Groaning, he dug his teeth into her shoulder, leaving a temporary part of himself in the indentations in her flesh. 

He panted against her raggedly. His fingers tenderly stroked the sides of her clit as she quivered through the aftershocks of her orgasm. She felt sweaty and tired but content. 

“Do you have one more left in you?” Lucien asked quietly, his fingers brushing the sensitive head of her bud. 

Elain wriggled underneath his big body. She was dangerously close to becoming overstimulated, little shocks of discomfort blazing through her clit the more he touched her. A few tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. “Oh, Lucien…”

“Just one more,” he said soothingly, kissing her along her jaw and neck as his fingers picked up their pace. “Need to make sure you keep all my come inside you so you can give me a baby. Fuck, you’d look so beautiful pregnant.”

Sobbing, Elain came again, weak aftershocks flooding her body. Lucien turned her head towards his to kiss her, swallowing her feeble cries with his soft lips. Finally, after what seemed like ages, Lucien withdrew his hand and his cock from her body, running soothing circles over her skin as she collapsed face first onto the bed, trembling. 

A warm hand skimmed the back of her thigh, up and up, then kneaded one of her ass cheeks. “I love seeing my come dripping out of your pretty cunt,” Lucien rasped in her ear, sweetly kissing her before he rolled down next to her on the bed like he hadn’t just completely rocked Elain’s world. He took her hand in his, entwining their sweaty palms together. 

Elain turned her head and peeked at him. Lucien was covered in a thin layer of sweat, his face and upper chest flushed. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily through his mouth. The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, Elain thought, taken aback, once again, by how damned lucky she was. 

“You’re still on birth control, right?” Lucien asked, cracking a single eye open to look at her.

“Oh yeah, I still have a few years left.”

“Oh, thank God. Knew you did, but in the heat of the moment…”

“What, you weren’t serious about knocking up the girl you’ve only been seeing a few months?” Elain asked sarcastically, arching an eyebrow and smirking at him as she turned over to lay on her side towards him. 

He scoffed. “Well, not yet at least. My mom would kill me if I got you pregnant and we weren’t married.”

She ignored the little somersaults in her belly at hearing Lucien talk about marriage and getting her pregnant one day. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to live with the knowledge that my insanely hot boyfriend is a sex fiend with a breeding kink,” she sighed dramatically. 

“Insanely hot boyfriend, huh?” Lucien smirked. “I’ll take it. But the real question: am I hot enough to be a DILF?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

“I’m not answering that,” she said.

“We could put it to the test. Give me a reason to marry you and not have my poor mother disown me.” His eager hands wandered up her legs and stomach to her breasts, caressing a peaked nipple. 

“Lucien!” Elain shrieked in laughter, hitting him with a pillow as he feebly tried to defend himself. Sometime later she would admit that yes, he’s definitely hot enough to be a DILF - as long as she was the only one who got to fuck him. 

(Lucien had no complaints about that.)

[catboy-cassius]

things i cant get, but would help:

paper plates/bowls

pre-washed/chopped veggies + pre-prepared food(ramen is great but not nutritionally too great and i cant eat nothing but that lmao)

a gallon of water in my room so i don't have to get up to refill my water bottle

similarly, safe foods in my room so i don't have to get up to get them/prepackaged snacks in general

a cane

noise canceling earbuds/earplugs/something to help with sensory issues

id love a working dishwasher, but those cost money, but i think a chair to sit in while i wash dishes would be really helpful

similarly, a chair in the shower

a place to sit/lay that isn't the floor or my bed. it's hard to get up off the floor, and my bedframe is broken- besides, my therapist recommended i only use my bed for sleeping, but i have nowhere else to sit/lay

a weekly pill organizer- although i anticipate struggling with remembering to refill it, it would be so much easier to remember to take my meds+vitamins if they're all portioned out and in my room

dry shampoo. i really struggle with showering already, and now my shower water smells weird and there's a several inch gap in the floor that smells moldy. however, greasy, stiff hair is a sensory nightmare, and the thought of going outside with hair so greasy it looks soaking wet makes me feel really insecure and ashamed.

here's a slight rant:::

a lot of these things are really accessible- like a pill organizer or a gallon of water, but im unemployed. i cant afford a one-time, ten-dollar purchase, let alone a weekly purchase like gallon jugs of water. im in college full-time and it's exhausting, but i feel like i can't leave.

i still live with one of my parents. i was supposed to move out after graduating but i was in the hospital seven times last year so i couldn't hold down a job and move out. my mother really wants me out of the house, and i understand why- i struggle to keep myself and my environment clean, to the point where it inconveniences her. because of this, she only pays for the essentials, which means she'll buy me "staple foods" like bread and eggs, and she pays my phone bill. i appreciate both these things- they help me a lot- and they're not the only things i need to be able to take care of myself. im hopefully moving in with my partner by the end of the year, but even then, i feel terrible inconveniencing her by asking her to buy me so many things when she works minimum wage. i've been trying to apply for disability but the process seems daunting.

rant over!!! i hope you all have a lovely day, and remember to drink some water!!!

[tiffyfoundsomething]

My First Barbie

I have an actual review! I haven’t done one of those in some time.

This would have been done months ago but the delivery date on the ones I’d ordered kept being pushed back and back and I finally cancelled the one that I was able to cancel and went and bought the doll in person at Target instead.

My First Barbie costs about $20 everywhere, including Amazon:  https://amzn.to/3xTsDVR

Amazon, however, apparently sold dolls they didn’t have and have kept pushing delivery dates back while stores like Walmart and Target have had these on the shelves the whole time.

I had hoped she’d be easy to remove from the packaging but she was pretty average. Some snips here, some tears and rips there (bubbles glued to the backing), 6 plastic tabs in the back of her head...

Why...

And she was free.

She does have some prominent seams on one arm and those little injection points that are common to soft-bodied dolls.

After having handled her a bit I think that she is not a skinny skeleton under a thick layer of vinyl like the 90′s click leg Barbies were, but instead a shell with a thin layer of vinyl over top.

@queenofsquids​ compared the feel of her “skin” to that of a fresh yet greasy pink eraser and I can’t think of any better way to put it.

She does feel greasy.

Her face isn’t particularly spotty. It does look like it was printed in dots, but they’re close together and looks pretty good.

She had a chunk of plastic in her hair, and it was both sparsely rooted and distressingly oily.

When I washed her hair it suddenly felt horrible. It’s very grippy and I couldn’t get my fingers through it. It also curled up funky in on spot where the hair is cut short.

A boil dunk did help.

Right now I’m waiting for it to dry again so I can see how it feels dry after being washed and then I’ll see about conditioning it.

EDIT:  I feels alright after drying, though still feels a bit oily. Might be Saran.

I can’t tell what fiber it is, all I can tell is that it feels very bad. It behaves like polypropylene in that it gets messy very easily with minimal touching, but it’s glossier than I’m used to poly being.

First brushing with the provided brush resulted in a little bit of hair loss. This is normal.

For me, so far, the feel of the “skin” and the hair were both sensory nightmares.

Luckily, I was warned.

I did eventually get fed up with the greasiness and washed her hair AND body. Her body feels nicer after being washed, and her hair felt oh so much worse, as I mentioned above.

Her articulation is ok, but not great. Her shoulders can move in and out and spin all around, and her head can turn but not look up nor down.

Knees don’t bend far, and neither do her elbows. Being a shell with a thin layer of vinyl would explain why her elbows and knees look so nice when bent.

She was already showing white stress lines in her joints when I deboxed her.

I didn’t see if she could do the splits because it didn’t cross my mind. I’m more concerned with how well a doll can sit.

She sits very well. Back straight and knees a bit apart or together. My doll is a little off-balance and warped, however, and tends to lean.

As others have mentioned, she’s rather hefty.

She was relatively easy to undress despite her skin being a bit grabby, because the dress is very loosely fit throughout including the shoulder straps. For whatever reason there was cardboard under her dress.

Since Mattel claims this doll is easy to dress, I also ordered an outfit that I felt would put that to the test:  A swimsuit.

Available here on Amazon:  https://amzn.to/3XY0yre

What’s the hardest thing to get on an old click-leg Barbie? Pants, tights/hose, and swimsuits.

It was ALMOST easy to remove until I discovered three of those tiny plastic tabs. I hate these things SO much.

Getting the swimsuit on wasn’t too difficult up until I got to her upper thigh, then I had to work a bit to get it the rest of the way on.

I also snagged it immediately with it’s own Velcro-like closure. I can see that frustrating kids... It frustrated me as a kid.

Her default booties were kind of difficult to get on her feet because her ankles and heels are a bit soft, but the sandals from the swimsuit pack were very easy to put on (I forgot to take a photo...). The sandals also stay on well. I did give her a good shake.

Her glasses can also survive a shake, but not the hat. The hat is a bit too small for her head.

The fit of the swimsuit is shapeless and boxy, and that’s alright. It does make it easier to get on and off and is still rather cute.

Perfect fit for G3 Monster High Lagoona, though. Her earrings are..... Somewhere around here.

Sooooooo in the name of science, and because it came up not too long ago, I gave her foot a gentle chomp to see what happened.

It’s a softer, bouncier texture than 90′s click legs, and there is no bitterant applied. I think it’s too soft to really encourage chewing, but I don’t think it would stop a child that was inclined to chew a doll’s feet, either.

A gentle chew did mark her foot easily, however, and a boiling didn’t undo the damage.

(That piece of her right foot was already missing.)

All in all, despite the sensory unhappiness brought on by the texture of her hair and skin, I rather like her.

As others had said, it may well be because the size she is now in my hands as an adult is similar to the size Barbie seemed then, when I was a child and it’s hitting a bit of nostalgia that I didn’t know was missing.

[theculturedmarxist]

These days I mostly avoid being around art spaces and the dwindling population of people that frequent them. This is for the same reason you might duck an old friend who’s been transformed by time and circumstance into a thing that you scarcely recognize. Sometimes it’s better to remember them as they were.

I broke my rule the other night to attend the closing of a theater I built long ago, and it was every bit as sad and disappointing as I would have expected. Hardly anyone came to send her off, and the ones that did could muster nothing better than a couple of beers and off to bed. The whole thing was over by 11.

“Who are you voting for,” a pudgy, bearded, graying Xer, asked me before I left. He was wearing a kind of middle-aged bohemian get-up, right down to the hipster hat, that made him look like he’d just stepped out of a commercial for a new Type II diabetes drug. I’m down to talk my doctor about . . .

“I’m writing in Dave Chappelle,” I said.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find the part of his brain that knew how to process a dissenting opinion. Not finding one he sputtered, “But you’re not for Trump.”

“No.”

Then a skinny, wan, pale guy with sunken eyes, and long, greasy black hair, sober as a judge, like someone who’d acquired all the physical attributes of heroin addiction, without ever having had any of the fun, said, “Then you have to vote for Biden, or Trump wins.”

“So what,” I said.

And that was when they both shit themselves and I had to do the whole red-pill/blue-pill thing. By the time that was over, everyone else had gone and I followed suit. Leaving the building for the last time, I thought of livelier days when the whole place, the whole block, the whole city, was full of life and crazy energy.

How did this happen? How did we get here?

This is an article I’ve started, abandoned, and started again a few times over the years. That’s partly because I still had some hope when I began that I might one day be able to return to my craft as a theater director without revealing my opinions. But that was before Due Dissidence had a YouTube show. Now I very visibly express ideas 3-4 times a week that would get me professionally and socially cancelled in about 5 minutes as soon as anyone from that crowd took the time to check out the channel, which of course they would.

Another thing that’s kept this one at the bottom of the digital drawer is lingering affection for a lot of people who are still making the music, lighting the lights, and all that. I have dear friends in the arts and this is going to hurt some of their feelings. Except for the ones who regularly DM to thank me for saying what they can’t without risking career suicide. Those will be greatly cheered by this piece, in the way of a bullied child watching their tormentor take a hard fist to the nose, so I guess in the end that part’s a wash. Here goes.

In the 8 years since the election of doom that transformed me from the kind of guy who wanted to have a beer with Rachael Maddow, to the kind of guy who would protest her book reading, I’ve had lots of debates with lots of people.  Enough to notice a distinct pattern

Conservatives will generally keep it on the issues; they may not agree with you, but as a rule they aren’t going to go right to ad hominem attacks on your character.  Liberals can go either way: they may debate the issues with you, but they’re just as likely to attack you personally as a closet Republican, a Russian plant, or if you happen to be a white man, that’s kind of their go-to.  But the absolute worst people you can find yourself engaging with are members of the arts community.  I know this because I’ve been a member of it since at the tender age of 19, I bullshitted my way into a directing gig at the still extant 13th Street Repertory Theater. 

The artists I worked with then as a kid from Queens dazzled by the bohemian world I had infiltrated wouldn’t recognize the artists of today, and I suspect they wouldn’t like them all that much.  Heirs to a 60’s counter-culture ethos of distrust for authority and institutions, and to an older tradition of the artist-intellectual, they generally thought of all politicians as dishonest psychopaths, and spent more time discussing Kafka than the evils of Soviet Russia, which occupied the same position of public enemy #1 that its successor state does today.  And lest the wokeratti immediately jump to its aforementioned go-to, the scene was far more substantively diverse than what you might find at a theater or a gallery today.  They were gay and straight, old and young, black and white and brown, and in a major departure from the current moment, both penniless and well to do.  There were artists living rent free in the loft above the theater, others renting $250 apartments in pre-hipster Williamsburg who had to walk across the bridge to get to rehearsals for lack of train fare, and still others living comfortably on the Upper West Side.  If there was a failing it was in a tendency towards pretentiousness: when a middle-aged woman pronounced confidently at a post-rehearsal dinner that the principal crisis of the modern age was the “post-Nietzschean vacuum,” I almost laughed in her face.  No one had that problem in my native Flushing, and I suspected that was true most places.  But the problem wasn’t racism, sexism, or homophobia-expressing those sorts of views would have been just about the only thing that could have gotten you ejected in an atmosphere where pretty much anything went, and it was that way in the arts community for as long as I was a part of it.

Generally, I like to heavily source everything I write, ‘cause when you’re offering controversial opinions, you had better cross all your t’s and such.  But because the arts are such a distinct subculture and the kinds of institutions that have the means to conduct a wide survey on questions like: what class background do artists usually come from, or, when did artists start to favor censorship, never would, I must of necessity rely on my personal observations and speculations.  Which makes this, by definition, a personal essay, so take it as you will. 

I’m starting from the premise that something has gone very wrong when you have an American arts community that tends to be politically conservative in the sense of being to the right of general sentiment in the Western world on class and economics; that mindlessly supports politicians like Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton who’s records are at odds with even the identitarian issues that they claim to care about, and that sees de-platforming and cancelling figures like Joe Rogan as a legitimate tactic, never considering the idea that once you let that genie out of the bottle, no one will be more vulnerable to having it turned against them than artists.  I’ve given a lot of thought to how a bohemian scene of intellectuals and misfits turned into something resembling a PTA meeting in Scarsdale. This is what I came up with:

I will concede this to the painfully woke white people that dominate the arts even as they lately denounce their own position: rich white people are the crux of the problem, with the emphasis being on “rich” rather than “white,” as some would have it. The low to no pay circumstances of most creatives are beside the point, even though many of them will point to this as evidence of their moral authority to speak on matters of poverty and marginalization. If “artist” isn’t a Professional Managerial Class job, what is it? It sure ain’t factory work. The pretense of artists to social disenfranchisement calls to mind John Goodman’s line in Barton Fink, where his serial killing salesman tells John Turturro’s slumming writer, “You’re just a tourist with a typewriter, Barton. I live here.”

Most of these folks are just playing dress up for a while before they pack it in for Grad School and take up residence in the same sedate suburban enclaves from whence they came. Just as in every other sphere of American society, the arts are, and always have been, dominated by these kinds of middle and upper-middle class, mostly white people, whose sensibilities reflect that reality.  The higher up the food chain you go, the more evident that becomes.  The same exact advantages of money and connections that favor people in every other industry, favor those who attempt a career in the arts.  Perhaps even more so because the standards are so nebulous.  If you’re a doctor, or an attorney, you either do your job well, or you don’t.  If you’re an artist, the quality of your work is subjective which leaves a lot of room for just hooking up the people you relate to, which in the arts is going to mean a lot of rich white people, hooking up other rich white people.  The net effect of that is, if a lot of bad ideas are coming out of the suburbs, that’s going to be reflected in the work.

When the PMC’s were more rooted in the New Deal, with its focus on class and economics, as was the case when I first entered the scene, so were the arts. Now that they’ve turned to neoliberalism in their economics, and the post-modern turn has unmoored their social activism from observable reality, we have an arts community that has nothing to say about the current moment that strays an inch from what you might hear on MSNBC. This is why, as just one example, in a moment of social strife and economic dislocation, the Artistic Director of Connecticut’s Long Wharf Theater recently seized on the idea of a Black Trans Women at the Center festival as the best use of his platform and resources. The company lost their home of 55 years shortly thereafter.

Whereas in the 30’s a good many artists responded to the Depression by adopting a Marxist-Leninist posture and playwrights like Clifford Odets, (the writer being satirized by the Cohens in Barton Fink), and later Arthur Miller and Rod Serling, began writing plays for the first time that placed working class people “at the center,” this generation of artists greets the moment with only contempt for the struggles of working people, seeing them as reactionary Trumpers who sadly lack the education and sophistication to realize that the economy is great, incremental change is the best we can hope for, and getting all bent out of shape about books full of graphic cocksucking in your child’s middle-school library is totally uncool. Rather than to represent the struggles of average people, these artists offer them nothing but derision and when they do bother to acknowledge them, it is only to portray them as wrong-think culture war enemies.

Adding to the problem, poor people who manage to get to college usually don’t decide to major in something that’s going to almost guarantee that they end up poor.  Being an artist is a luxury most people from economically disadvantaged environments just don’t think they can afford.  You’re a lot more likely to choose it if you have a trust fund to fall back on.  So, essentially you end up with a scene dominated by trust fund babies, no matter what identity group they align with.  Their politics proceed from there.  All these artists going on about white privilege is partly a case of, to use a phrase with which any theater aficionado will be familiar, “Methinks thou dost protest too much.” And as with Diversity Equity and Inclusion efforts in other sectors, this results in pretenses at promoting “representation” amounting to nothing more than trying to find more black and brown people from similar backgrounds to the whites that are already there, and who consequently share the same attitudes. Barracks and Michelles are always welcome, but the Hueys and Assatas make these folks deeply uncomfortable. The theater party I walked into last week, was no more racially diverse than the scene I knew in the 80’s (perhaps a bit less), but it was palpably less wide-ranging in class perspectives.

Another reason the censorious Victorian lady in high dudgeon pose that has become the liberal class default setting over the past 10 years or so, has had so much appeal to this group in particular, probably has to do with the psychological afflictions common to artists, combined with the insecurities inherent in the profession.  This is something else I’d love to see a study on: common psychological illnesses in artists, but lacking such a study, I can only tell you what I’ve observed.  Most people don’t choose a career in the arts because they’re very secure, contented and happy sorts.  The level of personal psychological torment that’s driven them to such an irrational career choice varies, but deep neurosis, emotional neediness, and pervasive self-doubt are kind of a base line.  I do not except myself from this analysis: my head is the kind of snake pit that Indiana Jones has nightmares about.  Proceeding from there, you’ll find a fair amount of narcissism, borderline personality disorder, manic-depression, and just plain old depression-depression.  These qualities are not at all ameliorated by constant rejection and criticism, which is kind of the nature of the beast.  In some ways the people who are attracted to the arts are the least capable of enduring its vicissitudes without severe psychological damage.  So, you have a bunch of deeply insecure, neurotic people, trying to make their way in a profession where the rules are vague and the agreed upon standards of successful work are non-existent, and then you hand them a secular religion that gives them not only rules and standards, but a weapon with which to bludgeon their critics as -ists, phobes, and reactionary heathens.  That’s like throwing crackers at a starving man.  Naturally they jumped on it en masse, without ever thinking through the consequences.  Critical Social Justice gave artists something they haven’t had since Duchamp signed a urinal and called it a sculpture: certainty.  And this group is far too ignorant of the past to know why their forbears rejected the kind of formalism that these standards impose, and what the price paid in quality, creativity and individual expression will be in the long run. Insofar as they embrace Duchamp’s lesson, it is only in using the precedent set by his famous prank to avoid being interrogated on the basis of quality, talent and craftsmanship.

Which brings us to my final observation.

I’m going to let you in on a secret, although if you’ve ever been dragged to a “new interpretation” of Hamlet on the Lower East Side, back when we still did that sort of thing, you probably already know: talent is rare.  That’s why we call it talent.  If it was common, we’d call it something else.  I’ll give you a breakdown from something I have a fair amount of expertise in-auditioning actors.  If you audition 100 actors, it’s going to go something like this: about 10% will be so God-awful you have to wonder where they got the encouragement; around 60% will be passable in the way of people who have had a lot of training; 20% will be very good; 8% will be excellent; a final 2% will be exceptional-in other words, talented.  So, based on my admittedly subjective observations, only about 30% of the people who call themselves “artists” have any business pursuing it.  And only 2% of those are really gifted.  So, the scene is, and always has been, mostly populated by hangers-on who are only one 30th Birthday away from packing it in and getting a Masters in Social Work.  The appeal of a set of standards that remove the basis of evaluating work from its quality to its adherence to a set of clearly defined political beliefs is obvious.  If you can’t out-talent people, you can at least out-woke them.

None of this is to say that representation in the arts isn’t a problem or wasn’t a problem until these meddling kids started performing their virtue for likes and clicks.  It’s always been a problem, particularly at the level of management and project leadership, in the arts as in every other sector of society.  I would posit that DEI efforts are a solution in search of a problem, only in that part of the reason for that lack of representation, has always been a lack of artists of color walking in the door, which in turn has to do with the economic realities I’ve mentioned.  There aren’t a lot of poor white people walking in the door either; I’ve owned 5 theaters in NYC across three decades, and I never met another theater owner or director, who grew up on welfare.  In my experience, that lack of representation never had to do with virulent racism in the arts community. It always had to do with class realities and broader issues of structural racism society-wide that stop POC from ever making it to the door to be considered.  If you were paying any kind of attention, that lack of diversity was always an embarrassment, but you can’t work with people who simply aren’t there because of societal problems that reach far beyond the arts.  If we really want to do something about this, we need to go out into impoverished and marginalized communities, provide training and encouragement to young people in particular, then offer them jobs in our theaters and galleries, instead of only looking for POC from similar backgrounds to the people who are already there in order to assuage their white guilt.  Until we see arts institutions doing that, we will know DEI efforts in the arts for what they are: one more example of rich white people protecting the privileges of their class, even if they have to outwardly denounce them in order to do it.

In the end, the arts scene as it exists today and the institutions that support it may have simply become too sclerotic, out of touch, and irrelevant for saving. The future is with activist-artists grown naturally from their communities, using new technologies and platforms to draw attention to concerns and realities that no gatekeeping clique of PMC’s will ever understand or think to explore. As our self-appointed creators of culture have abandoned us, it may be time that we abandon them in turn, leaving their venues to close as they should, leaving their 501c’s to go bankrupt, as they are doing, and taking the space their collapse opens up to create something new of our own.

[maleficentmrsofallevil]

Using Koreanbuddies proxy shopping service

Buyee (Japan proxy) review here.

Website: koreanbuddies.com

Fees: 12 percent of order, $12 (USD) minimum.

What I bought: 2 Mimi World dolls

Total order: $42.94 for dolls, $12 for order fee, $62.50 for DHL shipping from (South) Korea to me in Midwest BFE USA. I did have the option for them to unbox the dolls and put in a smaller, cheaper box, but I wanted the boxes (may explain the higher fee).

Look! I cleaned my desk! A little...

This is (per the website) Fashion Mimi/Pose Mimi Newface Chic Mimi, and my little problem child. I provided the link to order her direct from Mimiworld, but apparently, she was out of stock. I ordered her on June 17. The other doll arrived to the proxy right away, but her status was listed as "shipping to proxy" until I emailed the website on July 6, 2023. I read some online reviews, and this is a bit of a recurring theme. Seems like you have to pester them.

Turns out she was out of stock, and Mimiworld cancelled the order. The proxy did find a replacement doll for me at another Korean toy shop, and the doll was on sale. I did not see a refund or credit for the reduced price.

She arrived today. The box was a little crushed in one corner, which, for $62.50? Meh.

Koreanbuddies doesn't offer the lovely PDF download of your order like Buyee does, so that was a disappointment, too.

In summary, it seems like Koreanbuddies is a smaller proxy, and one you have to keep an eye on. Probably won't use them again.

Newface Mimi is STIFF out of the box. She creaks a little when you move her joints, and it takes a little force to move her arms. She can shake her head no, but her head doesn't move up and down or side to side (swivel joint versus ball joint). Her legs are a little more floppy, but she remains upright nicely on her stand. She's around $13 USD, and I would say the quality of her plastic is a little lower than Mattel/Barbie, but the clothes are nicer. That bum bag tho... (blech)

She comes with a plastic necklace, earrings, sunglasses (translucent), a hat, a watch (black), a bracelet (ditto), a mobile phone (plastic with a phone sticker), top, pants, shoes, and itty bitty teeny tiny socks. Oh, and the ugly bum bag. Earrings are on posts and easily removable. She was held in place with plastic-coated wire (not plastic jibbers). Her hair is soft, but it feels a little greasy. She's cute, and I'm glad to add her to my collection.

[eyedelater]

i have written a post to encompass every thought i have had about the golden kamuy character ogata hyakunosuke. i couldn't help writing it, and here it is. it includes analysis, interpretation, confusion, thoughts about shipping, and spoilers all the way to the end of the manga.

the post is incredibly long because i wanted it all in one place... i'm sure that much of this has been said by other people, but i haven't read anything anyone else has said. this is purely between me and canon. i have now read golden kamuy through twice and watched the anime once. i missed a lot on the first read, and i probably missed some things on the second read too.

i can't help but love the character ogata hyakunosuke. i know a lot of it is the character design: sneaky eyes with built-in eyeliner, greasy all-back hairstyle with a powerful ahoge (and don't try to tell me an ahoge is not what it is), little beard that somehow skirts past my strong dislike for nasty little beards. he's so crafty… he's sorta weak in close combat… he's completely wrong about things such as killing one's parents and the nature of guilt… he's confident right up until he isn't…

normally if a character captures my interest like this, i want to ship them with another character so i can be satisfied by looking at amusing fanart of them outside of canon. but there honestly isn't anyone i want to pair him with… the fact of his eventual death notwithstanding. (i don't ship dead characters. too sad.) he's great as a cruel and calculating loner who thinks he knows what he wants but doesn't. i don't feel a need to see fun and exciting shipping antics with this character in particular. i will to look at some fanart to see what i can get out of it, but i'm really satisfied by just what happens in canon. and yet i still feel like i have to make sense of these feelings, so i'm writing a post that nobody asked for (just like all my other posts).

i'm annoyed with myself because as i was first reading golden kamuy, it took a long, long time to dawn on me that there MUST be people who think of ogata hyakunosuke as their favorite silly little cinnamon roll and make obnoxiously cute posts about what he would do in domestic situations and stuff. as we learned more about him, i became certain that some people must feel that way, Despite Everything. and i was so very annoyed by the thought of it that i decided to make it a point to dislike ogata… to buck the trend. to avoid biting the fandom bait. BUT IT DIDN'T WORK………… he grew on me… ugh. i still really, really don't want to see fluffy fics with him or anything like that though. god. i have less patience than ever for fandom content that cutesifies every character. especially fucked up weird horrible men like him <3

it's an incredibly audacious move to create a merciless sniper character who killed three (3) members of his closest family (and who knows how many soldiers) and then also give him explicitly catlike characteristics and behaviors, all the while knowing that everyone loves cats!!! (slams table.) fuck off! noda-sensei had to have been trying to induce brain-melting levels of cognitive dissonance in the minds of horny readers who desperately want catboy hyakunosuke to be their poor little meow meow but also want to cancel him for being a bad dude. i'm not immune

i like ogata in kind of the same way i like crocodile one piece. they're weird and smug and fun to watch. and of course, they're similar in some ways. the greasy all-back hair with pieces falling down, and the facial stitches, and the excessive confidence, and their voice actors being perfect. and, you know, the being villains who are eventually defeated. crocodile lets out his slow laugh whenever he feels things are going his way, and ogata just does a little shit-eating grin, and they're both perfect. key difference: ogata gets naked

i have been made aware that a non-zero amount of people ship ogata with asirpa, and those people might benefit from being run over by a car. asirpa is excluded from shipping of any sort, no exceptions, because she is 13 years old and 95% of the other characters are (bizarre, horrible) adult men. the fact that she has a one-sided crush on sugimoto for some amount of time is perfectly natural and reasonable given the circumstances (i believe that anyone would fall in love with sugimoto if they were in her place). the relationship between sugimoto and asirpa is that of a wonderful, wholesome, and strong found family.

back to ogata. i liked that during his first appearance, he gets his arm broken, gets beaned on the back of the head with his own gun, falls into a ravine, hits his face on a cliff, and bounces off the cliff into the icy river. that was so early in the story that his character design wasn't even nailed down yet, and that scene can be easy to forget, but it should be remembered. i like when ogata gets shot in the chest and the shoulder. i like when we get just a little snapshot of ogata knocked out cold at the stenka. i like the flashback of masked ogata getting his face bloodied by teen koito and then having to pretend like it never happened even though he's pissed. i like when ogata gets the snot beat out of him by usami. this is not a toga-himiko-like aesthetic preference for a man's bloody and beat-up body. rather, i love how he has strong (and justified) confidence in his one skill (sniping) and therefore seems confident overall but keeps getting busted up anyway because he's weak in close combat. it's a good dissonance.

i love seeing ogata smugly perched on things… it's like, "ah, there he is…!"

i love ogata feeling guilty about only the worst murder he committed and none of the others… he was testing his limits, and he found them. it didn't stop him from killing again, but he never got over it either.

i love ogata being the only one who chose not to hold hands and jump at the beach scene… doesn't want to make a fool of himself… but he made a funny face when he got beaned in the back of the head, didn't he. i like the ogata who gets made a fool out of.

after the ordeal with anehata shiton, ogata said that all men feel regretful and disgusted after they shoot their load. probably that's all he's ever felt, doing it with prostitutes and such, if at all. makes a little note in my notebook

ogata does terribly cruel things, and he must recognize to some degree that people will see his actions as cruel, but he doesn't do it for the sake of being cruel. he is heartless, but only when he feels he has a reason. everything is analyzed based purely on how it will affect him, and he acts that way consistently throughout the entire story. he can mime kindness if he has to, but clumsily. he cultivates a trusting relationship with asirpa purely because he understands that nopperabou is her father. he goes along with what sugimoto wants purely for convenience and because he understands how strong/dangerous sugimoto is. he shoots wilk, despite knowing that he is asirpa's father and that she will be very upset, purely because he wants to limit the spread of whatever information wilk has about the gold. he shoots sugimoto, his ally for months, not to be cruel, not as revenge for almost killing him that one time, but to eliminate a potential complication to his plan. the only one he really needs in his party is asirpa, and all asirpa is to him is the key to the gold, and all the gold is to him is a path to climb the ranks to prove that his father was worthless. his behavior is unpredictable on first read, but when rereading, it's incredibly consistent. his lack of guilt is entirely premised on what he can justify to himself, and he's great at justifying anything in his own mind. but there is a limit, and yuusaku was that limit; what haunts him most about yuusaku's death is that this time, he can't justify it. he didn't have a good reason. that causes a crack in the foundation of his entire personality, and when he gets acute aconite poisoning from asirpa's arrow, the anxiety it brings is what causes that crack to spread and his entire ego to collapse.

can someone count how many panels feature ogata's face and then also count how many of those panels show him smoothing back his greasy hair and give me some kind of ratio? i think it's high. i think the ratio is high. though i didn't notice until a couple hundred chapters in. but on reread it's like yeah, every other ogata panel, he's got his hand on his head. i do like when an author commits to a tic. no one else in the story has such an obvious repeating tic, i think. he even gets a nade nade (pet pet) sound effect when he's smoothing his hair repeatedly out of nervousness (after he shot the reindeer by accident).

have i mentioned i hate nasty little beards but ogata's slides right in under the gate? that's another cognitive dissonance for me, and it's tough. hard to get over this one.

"daily affirmations i Can be normal about that man"

~quote from deleted post by a tumblr user who maybe doesn't want credit bc they deleted their post

he dishes out smug grins when things are going his way, but he dishes out WRY grins when things AREN'T going his way! hoargh! (throwing up hands)

it's worth noting, to defend my honor, that ogata is not the only one who grew on me. everyone grew on me. another important one is tsukishima, who i admit i wasn't paying very much attention to until they started heading toward karafuto (during the first reading) and then i was like, that was the guy in the coal mine... right? oh, he's been there The Whole Time. and his design didn't change very much. he grew on me a lot. first you think snake nose, but then you think bunny nose. (someone on pixiv said gorilla nose? i don't like that…) his little beard doesn't strike me as nasty either (why not?? i don't know.) of course, koito was the boy of the hour as soon as he first appeared, and i paid a normal amount of attention to him. (the only part of his design that changed is that his eyebrows got stronger and his parted hair got fixed. actually his part seems to fluctuate between messy and neat.) i really like the dynamic of koito being a needy younger pain-in-the-ass to tsukishima while outranking him and being taller than him. in japanese, tsukishima always addresses him with polite speech, and koito rarely even addresses tsukishima with an honorific. tsukikoi seems to be a good and semi-wholesome ship… you know, semi-wholesome. listen, they end up together forever at the end, so it's fine. you guys can make obnoxiously cute posts about what they would do in domestic situations if you want. so anyway, it's not just ogata who got my attention. but it is ogata who this post is about, so let's end this paragraph and leave room for more notes.

Noda-sensei will use any and every opportunity to show you the silhouette of a dick and balls swinging around during an action scene where people happen to be naked. However, he doesn't do that with Ogata. The reason is that he wants you to remember that Ogata is a serious bad guy character and doesn't want you laughing at his dick and balls. For the same reason, he also precludes Ogata from partaking in the horny otter sumo wrestling. In this essay, I will-- ok just kidding, they showed his dick and balls when he kicked koito in the face. and then they showed that exact panel again a few chapters later. with his dick and balls again.

i bet the hyaku in hyakunosuke is obviously referring to getting a 100% hit rate. (hyaku means 100, same kanji and everything. -nosuke is a common ending for a boy's name.) or to put it in sogeking terms, 100 shots, 100 hits, lu lu la la lu

it's interesting that out of the 4 people we see tsurumi gratuitously manipulate into loyalty, ogata is the only one where it doesn't stick very well. to be fair, tsurumi played his game with ogata a bit differently than with the others. he helped ogata kill his father and promised to help him rise through the ranks, but ogata didn't understand at first that tsurumi had an ulterior motive that would make hanazawa's death a win-win for him. it was usami who brought up mantetsu and made ogata understand he was being manipulated. but even knowing that, he thought tsurumi might uphold the other part of his end of the deal by helping ogata get into the army academy, so he was willing to play along. of course, tsurumi's time was split between everyone he was trying to manipulate (as well as pursuing his main goals), so everything couldn't happen at once. another problem was that each of them wanted to be daddy's only special little boy, and ogata was no exception, so he got impatient upon seeing him pay attention to the others and thought tsurumi wasn't working to help him fast enough. it was only when ogata decided that tsurumi wasn't holding up his end of the deal that he decided to betray him by working for central (in the hopes that central could uphold a similar deal instead). i think i'm getting that right. compared to what tsurumi did for tsukishima, he didn't do that much for ogata. but tsukishima was his masterpiece of manipulation-- look how much he got out of him. in the end, tsurumi wanted to cultivate soldiers who are dogs among sheep, but of course, ogata is a cat in that metaphor…

i didn't read the manga well enough the first time and was thinking that ogata's failure to advance in the ranks was because he just wasn't really good at anything but sniping, and sniping wasn't properly appreciated by the higher-ups. while those two things are basically true, i now understand that he couldn't get promoted because he didn't attend the necessary school and was ineligible for any promotion above his current rank, regardless of his skills. and that's why his roundabout desire to climb in the ranks was hinged on his going back to school, which he couldn't do without the help of either tsurumi or central. so complicated…

people ship ogata and sugimoto, and i'm really torn about that. they do look kinda good together, but first and foremost, sugimoto deserves better (and he deserves a character who doesn't die at the end). i also think that the dynamic between those two is not that fun or interesting-- yeah, they almost kill each other and then save each other, etc., and that's fun, but i mean all the other interactions. i think there's not that much potential between them. plus ogata shoots him in the head. maybe that part should have come first and foremost. he does shoot the man in the head. that being said, of course, there's not a lot of great options for sugimoto to begin with, so i understand when people want to put him with ogata-- they need someone for sugimoto to be horny with, and they need someone for ogata to be horny with. like, who else do we have for sugimoto? shiraishi? you could argue for it… tanigaki? but what he has with inkarmat is pretty good, and i hate to sully canon romances by shipping against them. kiroranke? dies. anyone in the army? they're living in different worlds at the end of the story… just not a lot of great options for sugimoto, who deserves the best. also, if ogata and sugimoto had anything between them, ogata's death would make sugimoto sad, and i wouldn't like that.

shiraishi/ogata might be funny though. i like that scene when shiraishi is like "boy am i hungry!" to the man with a gun who likes to hunt and ogata doesn't say anything or look at him. (other good options for shiraishi include kiroranke [who dies] and boutarou [who dies]. that's 3 for 3 dead. unfortunate.)

i saw some ogata fanart. some artists like to give him Sneaky Squints and Crafty Grin all the time. he is sneaky, and he has distinctive eyes, but i think canon makes it clear that Sneaky Squints and Crafty Grin is a very rare special occasion thing, and a huge majority of the time he only has Glassy Eyes and nothing at all going on with the mouth. and that is the righteous truth. in a manga, facial expressions are a very important part of characterization, especially for characters who are always around but not always involved, so i prefer fanart where people try to emulate (and exaggerate) the faces a character makes in canon instead of assigning their preferred faces to a given character. (an unrelated example of this assigning of preferences would be taking two complex characters and turning one into Stoic Seme and the other into Weepy Uke. it is shocking how thoroughly and audaciously people will squish characters into those two molds. what a waste of time.) i get that i'm probably in the top 1% of sticklerism when it comes to wanting characters to adhere strictly to canon in certain ways, but it's because i strongly feel that canon ogata who is making a neutral Ogata Face 95% of the time and a rare Other Face 5% of the time is true and beautiful. to sully that by tailoring his character to your preferences is your prerogative, but to hate that is also my prerogative. not that i would ever leave negative comments or anything along those lines, ever. because that's stupid and a waste of time. the most time i will waste in that way is the time it takes to write what i've been writing here.

ogata dakimakura is permitted but it has to be ogata laid up on a stretcher, wrapped up, splinted arm, with his face all puffy after getting dumped in the river by sugimoto. or it has to be ogata standing up wearing his uniform complete with little cape and his gun on his back and looking through his binoculars into the distance. or it has to be a watchtower spanning the length of the pillow and ogata is perched in it, looking through his binoculars into the distance.

i hate the relationship between ogata and usami. usami is the ultimate slimy little dog (derogatory). nasty little freak usami. ogata is wrong about almost everything, but he was right about usami being the cheapest piece on tsurumi's gameboard. nasty little wannabe sexual predator usami. that scene where ogata's like "i'm normal, right?" and usami is affirming all the things he's wrong about, it's like, the man is fucked up enough already! i can't believe i'm saying this, but you're a corrupting influence on him! i don't like how usami calls ogata "hyakunosuke" like they're friends… tsurumi calls him that because he's manipulating him and a cool dad calls his special little boy by his given name, but usami fucking hates him, and yet he calls him that anyway. something gross about it. usami's death was perfect. nasty little death. and i liked how ogata kept quiet due to bullet in mouth while usami was going on and on saying whatever he wanted while he beat the shit out of him, and then usami left after getting shot, and ogata felt compelled to say his one-liner to himself. fuckin nerd

i like the ogata who is seriously, seriously wondering if he's being haunted by his brother's ghost.

i think my one main beef with everyday heroes scans, who did an overall great job scanlating, is that they should have kept honorifics. keeping honorifics is a tough choice to make for a translator because it can be confusing for an english reader, especially when you come across one that's out of the standard few. but i was very surprised to find upon watching the anime that sugimoto calls asirpa "asirpa-san"; i had no way of knowing that in the manga! even though she's so much younger than him, even when their relationship becomes very close, even when yelling out her name in moments of desperation, he keeps the honorific. it might just be out of habit, but i think it indicates how much he respects her. it might be small, but something is lost by omitting the -san. honorifics and the ways people address each other are very important in japanese, and because this story takes place chiefly in japan, chiefly among japanese (and japanese-speaking) characters, i think keeping honorifics would have been perfectly appropriate in this circumstance. i also think it would have clarified some things for the readers rather than confusing them. (for contrast, it would make perfect sense to omit honorifics in a story that doesn't take place in japan but just happens to be written in japanese… though some meaning would still be lost.) (side note: EH scans does in fact keep some honorifics: the ainu word "nispa.") and sometimes, omitting the honorific in a context where it is important can make the translated wording MORE awkward. the example i'm thinking of is when ogata is recovering in the hospital and the scanlation shows him muttering, "yuusaku… sir…" now i'm 98% sure that ogata called yuusaku "yuusaku-dono," even though younger siblings typically get no honorifics, because yuusaku outranked him (and also maybe to show distance between them), and that's what he's muttering in that scene. i think it's less weird to call your younger half-sibling "-dono" in japanese than it would be to call your younger half-sibling "sir" in english. it's an in-between level of respect (and distance) that doesn't exist in english. so it became weirder in english, and leaving the honorific would have preserved that meaning. well, i do respect that EH scans made their decision about honorifics in the very beginning and then stuck with it to the very end. i guess it would have been worse if they selectively added in SOME honorifics when they thought it was important. but my opinion is that they should have made the decision to keep honorifics from the beginning.

in chapter 283, ogata falls asleep on the train and dreams of his mother singing a traditional song to him about how the way there is easy, but the way back is scary. i think the symbolism is clearly that it was easy for him to kill his mother and his brother, but it's not easy (or possible) to take it back. it's a one-way path that he chose. it's another subconscious manifestation of his feelings of guilt.

now here is something i've been puzzling over but which everyone but me has probably already made sense of. i think this is the only part of the manga that has stuck with me BECAUSE i am confused by it. chapter 199, page 6. kidnapped koito otonoshin, whose father just told him over the phone that he cannot be saved, is saying something heartbreaking in reply, and one of his captors is rubbing his back as if to comfort him. what else could that be but a comforting hand? am i mistaken? and it's got to be important because it takes up THREE panels! now, if you're like me and you've decided that tsukikoi is the OTP of golden kamuy, your first thought was to want tsukishima to be the one under the white hat, and ogata is the one watching disapprovingly because he's a jerk. but otonoshin smacks and bloodies the face of man in the white hat with the back of his head, and the wounds we later see (and basically everything else) make it clear that the white hat was ogata. (then of course they put those hats on russian-looking corpses that they obtained… somehow. kidnapped off the street?) (side note: when they take the white hat and mask off one of the corpses, otonoshin should have been suspicious right away, because that guy's nose wasn't bloodied or anything. but i'll let his lack of perception slide given the circumstances. unless he remembers it in a later chapter and i'm the one who forgot.) anyway, so it was clearly ogata who rubbed otonoshin's back, which seems really weird and out of character. i was thinking that it must have been that tsurumi gave them orders along the lines of not completely breaking the kid's will and making sure he isn't too physically or emotionally hurt (or else he and his father wouldn't be usable in the future). this would gel with the fact that tsurumi seems slightly surprised/perturbed when commander koito says he's going to tell otonoshin to die for his country (because of course that's not what tsurumi wants or had planned for). so maybe ogata interpreted those orders, thought otonoshin was giving up on life, and decided that he should make sure the kid's will wasn't completely broken by providing a little comfort. and then the glare from the black hat is tsukishima with a sentiment like, "you're giving the game away, you dumb piece of shit! captors wouldn't do that! ESPECIALLY IF THEY DON'T SPEAK JAPANESE!" but another possibility occurs to me. we heard from ogata when he was pointing his gun at huci that he doesn't want to just kill someone's grandma if he can help it. he's a cold-blooded killer when he thinks he has a reason, but maybe he does have the thinnest sentimental streak when it comes to people he does not perceive as a threat. so maybe that thin streak is showing here? kidnapping some weak kid might have been the dirtiest work tsurumi had ever put him up to at that point. (did he kill his father before or after this? but was that even dirty work to him, when he felt he had a good reason?) maybe he honestly felt emotionally reluctant to traumatize a defenseless 16-year-old like that, so he reached out to comfort him without thinking. i wonder what is the fandom consensus about that page, yet i feel reluctant to look it up… but whichever scenario it is, tsukishima's glare has to be him thinking, "man, you suck at dirty work." (and afterward, ogata glares at otonoshin because he's angry and humiliated that he underestimated how much of a threat a bound 16-year-old posed to him.)

EDIT: regarding the above paragraph, i think i've realized the correct interpretation. it's not that the situation of kidnapping a kid has activated ogata's thin sentimental streak. it's the specific circumstances of the lines that were just said: commander koito saying he could not save otonoshin, and otonoshin apologizing to his father and asking him to pretend he had never been born. that combination of circumstances was maybe the only thing that could flip ogata's empathy switch enough to make him reach out a comforting hand. he probably feels with great certainty that if he himself had ever been kidnapped and held for ransom, his own father would have told him to die for his country as well, and he might even have said a similar line in response. the pain otonoshin felt in that moment was so clear to ogata that he couldn't help but comfort him... it's a key emotional character development moment for ogata... with his face covered... but of course he misinterpreted otonoshin's resilience and that's how he got his nose bashed.

i cried a lot when i first read ogata's death chapter, and i cried a lot the second time too. i think noda-sensei might be a genius… one thing that didn't register on first reading was that ogata must have enjoyed the time he spent traveling with asirpa and the others in a way, even if he didn't exactly realize it. asirpa reminded him of yuusaku, not just in her innocence, but in the way she trusted him and ate with him and joked with him and treated him as if he were "normal" (when he believes he isn't normal). ogata was yearning for familial love his whole life; he just fixated on getting it only from his father, which wasn't going to happen, and ignored what he got from his mother and his brother. yuusaku was the only one who loved him, but he got some of that warm familial feeling from asirpa and the others as well, even though he usually acted cold. (i think he said "hinna" primarily to manipulate asirpa... but maybe after saying it, he felt happy.) and now, not only did he have to deal with his mistake of killing yuusaku, but here he was trying to kill asirpa too! not only that, but he was corrupting her into killing HIM, and he thought he wanted that, but he didn't! he couldn't even accept his old guilt, and now he was foolishly inflicting new guilt, as if by compulsion! it's so painful! as he breaks down, we see him realizing his mistake in real time, how his goal of proving his father worthless was itself worthless all along, how he didn't actually need to kill any of his family, how he was following the wrong path based on his delusions and misunderstandings his whole life, and it hurts him so much… and he tries to deny it, but he's having it explained to him by himself, and he can only trust himself… whenever he felt conflicted about anything, he would just find some way stamp out the opposing view and believe in himself, but now, both sides were him, so he couldn't do that, and as a result, he was defeated. the chapter was very emotionally powerful… he died a coward's death because, never having confronted his guilt before, he couldn't imagine being able to live with it… and vasily found his body by the railroad tracks and painted his fursona.

you could ship ogata with vasily but the fact remains that they spend vasily's entire span of appearance in the manga in a fight to the death and then one of them dies. also he shot vasily in the mouth. you can't shoot a mouth with your gun and then try to kiss it later. that's inappropriate

the last time ogata shoots sugimoto, he doesn't aim for the head. it's as though he learned his lesson. but it still didn't work, did it?

i saw the ogata nendoroid and took damage from it. hate it. i don't want any more chibis...

it seems that some things are changed in the volume releases of golden kamuy. i have only read the scanlated magazine releases. i wonder if i can be content to decide that this is the end of my ogata post when i don't know if any important ogata details were changed in the volumes. i would also like to read and compare the official translation. one thing i want to see in the volume releases is if noda-sensei ever goes back and adds teeth to the white voids of characters' mouths. it is incredibly clear to me that noda-sensei truly, viscerally hates drawing teeth. that's fair, but i do prefer even the vaguest semblance of teeth to a white void of a mouth. when he does draw teeth, they usually look perfectly passable. anyway, my next project will be deciding how to get my hands on the official translated volumes and then rereading again.

i think that might be all i have to say about ogata hyakunosuke right now.

[depression-culture-is]

Depression culture is giving a blank stare at ppl that they think they are special for hating a popular character that happens to have canonically depression ( Stan Marsh, Dazai osamu,etc) and mock their depression traits like this: "I know their hair is greasy 🤪🥳", " I know they don't shower why u all crushing on them (dazai)", "they stinky".

then they said "I don't like the character I don't get the hype, it's for the girlies who romanticize it, he is canonically doesn't shower, he would be stinky and not attractive", even when the character are confirmed to be attractive (Dazai) or they are considered cute for other ppl w/ the same age as them in their universe (Stan)

like I get they dislike said character and get annoyed at said character,and how that fanbase romanticized their mentall illness ? But also it feels like they are mocking depression traits more than showing the reality of it just bc the character annoys them and the fanbase annoys them??

Yes, depression is hell. It makes u procastinate, feel worthless even when things don't go ur way, it causes u lack or energy to do get ur shit done, you barely have strenght to wake up,can't do self care, eat too much or nothing.

But that doesn't mean every person w/ the depression acts the same and don't do self care. some of us, try to do it, some of us do some stuff like showering but not brushing teeth, not everyone acts in the same way.

but some of those ppl implied ppl w/ depression can't be attractive, god forbade us to be good looking bc we are depressed??

Be fucking for real.

I'm not cancelling people before you all jumped saying shit like " ppl this day so pressed" I'm just ranting something that annoys me.

I don't know if u get my point, if u would like to give ur opinion.

i agree. but, i mean, lack of self care doesn't even inherently equal unattractiveness. you can not brush your teeth or not shower daily or even weekly and still be an attractive person. same goes for people who overeat or don't eat at all, those who can't get out of bed in the mornings, those who's house is a mess because they can't get out of their own way. at least, that's how i see it.

people definitely need to take a look at how their behaviour and words might affect those who do the same things as those "unattractive" characters. all you're proving by saying that they're stinky and gross and unattractive, is that the people who do those things in real life are the same.

[get-back-homeward]

Brian Epstein’s first visit to the Cavern

[O]n Thursday, November 9, 1961, at the Cavern lunchtime session, the tracks that had been running in parallel for so long finally converged.

Brian Epstein’s “My Bonnie” inquiries had taken him so far but no further. He knew it was a foreign record, probably from Germany, and found it “very significant” that Nems had received three orders for it.23 He knew the Beatles were a Liverpool group and for the first time actively searched Mersey Beat for their name. The current issue (which, also for the first time, had a Nems front-page ad) included Wooler’s report of the Beatmakers’ spectacle, and the Beatles advertised for appearances at Litherland, New Brighton and the Cavern.

They were listed three times at the Cavern. Brian had been here when it was a jazz cellar run by its founder Alan Sytner—they’d grown up together, boys of the same age at the same synagogue.24 Now it was “a teenage venue,” the very thought of which intimidated him … though not enough to squash his interest. He phoned Bill Harry, who made inquiries and found out the Beatles were playing the Thursday lunchtime session; Harry informed Ray McFall that Brian Epstein of Nems would be coming down to speak to the Beatles; doorman Paddy Delaney was told to expect him—he was to be signed in without a membership card, special dispensation. Going to see live rock music wasn’t new to Brian—he’d been to Empire shows and, with his sharp eye for presentation, always found the staging dismal, noticing that few acts projected their personality across the footlights—but going to the Cavern was sure to be a different experience. Brian suggested his PA Alistair Taylor join him: they would go for lunch and drop into the Cavern on the way, to find out more about this “My Bonnie” record.

The club was just a two-hundred-step walk from Nems, but November 9 was one of those smoggy, cold early-winter days in Liverpool, so damp that smuts glued to skin, so dark that the sooty buildings lost detail and car headlights couldn’t put it back. Flights were canceled at the airport and foghorns groaned over the Mersey sound: the cawing seagulls and booming one o’clock cannon. The businessmen picked a path through narrow Mathew Street, between Fruit Exchange lorries and their debris, and at number 10 Paddy Delaney showed them along the dimly lit passage and down the greasy steps.

Bob Wooler was in the bandroom when Delaney ushered in their visitor. Wooler recognized him from Nems, though they’d never met. Brian waited for a pause in that cellarful of noise, then leaned across and asked, impeccably RADA, if that was the Beatles on stage, the group on the “My Bonnie” record. Wooler confirmed it was: “They are they, they’re the ones.”25 The visitor made his way to the back of the center tunnel and watched.

It was pretty much an eye-opener, to go down into this darkened, dank, smoky cellar, in the middle of the day, and to see crowds and crowds of kids watching these four young men on stage. They were rather scruffily dressed—in the nicest possible way, or I should say in the most attractive way: black leather jackets and jeans, long hair of course, and rather untidy stage presentation, not terribly aware and not caring very much what they looked like. I think they cared more, even then, what they sounded like.26

The Beatles had started the second of their two lunchtime spots. As Brian watched, Ray McFall made a point of introducing himself to the man whose elegance instantly impressed him, and Cavernites consuming cheese rolls and soup wondered about the natty feller. Margaret Douglas remembers he was “standing at the back, near the snack bar. He looked so out of place that people were saying ‘What’s ’e doin’ ’ere?’ Ray McFall and Bob Wooler always wore suits and ties but they were nothing like Brian Epstein—he always looked like his mum got him ready.”27

The Beatles were rocking, smoking, eating, joking, drinking, charming, cussing, laughing, taking requests and answering back; they spoke local, looked continental, and played black and white American music with English color; John and Paul vied and gibed for attention, George smiled quietly to the side and sang from time to time, Pete drummed and kept his head down. It was another lunchtime session—and not one of their best. They were jaded, losing interest. But Brian saw enough to see beyond:

Their presentation left a little to be desired as far as I was concerned, because I’d been interested in the theater and acting a long time—but, amongst all that, something tremendous came over, and I was immediately struck by their music, their beat, and their sense of humor on stage. They were very funny; their ad-libbing was excellent. I liked them enormously, I immediately liked the sound that I heard: I heard their sound before I met them. I think actually that that’s important, because it should always be remembered that people hear their sound and like their sound before they meet them. I thought their sound was something that an awful lot of people would like. They were fresh and they were honest and they had what I thought was a sort of presence, and—this is a terrible, vague term—“star quality.” Whatever that is, they had it—or I sensed that they had it.28

From Mark Lewisohn’s Tune In (Ch. 22)

[sweetgoldensyrup]

oh ho ho ho, tis the autism me lads

can't do homework, but studies two years worth of lessons in two weeks? tick!

no, i cant move, i can HEAR. MY. BONES. GRIND. its *shudders*

no mum, but you said we're going out and i did tell you that i dont want to but i though we were going the entire day and we're supposed to go in twenty minutes and you cancelled??? i know i didn't want to go, but i will sulk anyways, call me in two hours when ive slept this bone deep ache off, okay?

literally wtf is hunger? how does one just know when to eat?What do you mean you don't psychoanalyse your belly gargles to see if the tummy worms need sustenance?

Bestfriend: *runs fingers through my hair Me who hasn't showered in a week and doesn't want them to get greasy fingers but it feels so good and i dont want it to stop: is this....A MORAL CONNUNDRUM??

Classmate: soo i thought of helping kids with special needs, for my college application. i don't know how i can keep my cool tho. its...pretty tough yeah? Me, quite ready to rip them a new aresehole: mmm hmm...

neither my mind nor my mouth has an off button and its driving me to the brink. The worst thing is, they're in a who-is-the-loudest competition, so, im sorry person-i-just-met, you will have to sit through this info dump

*either sleeps for 2 or 12 hours* there is no in-between, and you wake up tired either way

what's a past perfect tense?? idk idc, but here's a 150k fanfic i wrote last week. its not that good, but it has dialogue like "the stars would wither away and die before i stop loving you" so its kinda okay

I can time jump, no, no for reals, istg (*cough* dissociation *cough*)

Fanfic: features the cutest fluff Me: *AGGRESSIVE FLAPPING*

[cotton-candycurls]

To the other autistic ppl in this website, you ever have those days when your sensory issues are all over the place?? In the sense that, for example my case, i wanna feel something weighted on me, i want my soul crushed right back into my body but everything my skin touches feels so so horrible i wanna rip my skin off, it's also cold as shit today and I hate being cold so I have no option but to wear a sweater but the only way that sweater won't bother as much is if it's not heavy, which completely cancels out the point; my head hurts but i want the interierity of my hair to be pulled back, to the point that my face feels stretched and to wear one of those hair hairbands that have teeth, so I can feel them scrape against the bed of hair; I woke up and despised shoes with my whole heart, i was tempted to go in flip-flops to class but i hate flip-flops more than I hate pop quizzes; my torso feels like it's burning from the inside out in an uncomfortable "I wanna throw up" way, but feeling cold also sucks. It's like I'm sensory seeking and avoiding at the same bleeding time; no matter how much I wash my face or massage my face, i feel it greasy and bloated.

Idk I'm asking cuz it might be the change of my medication acting up or i just always disregarded days i felt like this before getting diagnosed 🩷🩷🩷

🛼

[undinegeist]

the only thing that matters (2)

(1)

- xx - nikki - xx -

We wake up, go for breakfast, though it’s more like lunch…she has a bathtub, doesn’t seem to mind me hanging out in it while she takes to the shower.

After last night, it’s like she doesn’t care how I see her…though maybe she never has.

I feel lightheaded and dazed, but that’s the withdrawal.

“What the fuck is bangers and mash? Sounds like an euphemism for sex.”

She smirks, then makes a face. “It’s disgusting, potatoes and sausages.”

Just the thought of it makes me want to throw up; I can’t tell if it’s the power of suggestion, but suddenly I feel sick.

She’s on pushing her water bottle over to me, clearly aware.

“Thanks.” I take a sip, try to stop thinking of sausages. “Not sure I can eat anything now.”

The restaurant smells musty, greasy, and it definitely isn’t helping…I need to stop being so fucking sensitive.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here and find something better, then.”

- xx - nikki - xx -

We’re at her place, eating pancakes with whipped cream…the only thing that didn’t sound sickening to either of us, bought from a corner store on the way back.

The thought that in a few hours I have soundcheck makes me want to die…I just want to lie here forever.

I slip down, down to her lap, hoping to get a nap so I don’t throw up breakfast when the withdrawal hits again…I need to be okay enough for the show, want to do it clean if I can.

Her fingers come over my hair, playing with the strands, slipping over my forehead, pulling back my bangs, back and forth, over and over.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to leave you by falling asleep.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Are you coming with me to the show?��

She doesn’t answer right away, but then there’s the careless tone. “Yeah…I’m probably fired anyway, after kidnapping you.”

“Will it help if I tell them I went willingly?”

“Probably not.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Stay as long as I can, find some way to not go home.”

“You could come with us.”

She snorts. “You don’t even know me.”

“We’ve seen each other naked a couple of times, you could have sold that story of going over the bridge with me to half the magazines in England and gotten enough to never go home, but you haven’t. That’s enough for me, and if it’s not for you…name your price.”

She’s quiet, no longer playing with my hair; I’m scared to open my eyes and see rejection, the craving starting to hit because I can’t stand the thought of being me…

“I’ll go if I can work for it.” The words come in a rush, her fingers back in my hair.

“We’ve got a deal, then.” I don’t open my eyes; don’t want her to see how much I care.

- xx - nikki - xx -

They’re all over me the moment I get to the venue; I didn’t think I’d need clothes, that what I’m wearing won’t fly; Y/N takes my room key to go get me something, clever in slipping away from my scolding.

I tell her that, and she smirks, that same old fire, eager for a little hell, probably why I like her so much.

“You’ll knock them dead yourself, but if you haven’t by the time I get back, I’ll finish them off for you.”

I want to kiss or fuck her, but all I do is smirk back; she squeezes my arm, disappears.

I don’t knock them dead, but that’s only because I can’t bring myself to care; I sit in silence while Doc whines about the show, thinking he’d have to cancel it, that I’d drowned in the river, that he’d have to drag it to look for my body…I can’t help it, I just laugh.

He’s not amused, but I knew he wouldn’t be; I don’t give a shit.

“When I’m dead, you’ll know.”

He glares at me. “Don’t you fucking tease me right now, Sixx.”

“I wouldn’t, if you weren’t so fucking stupid.”

“You jumped in the Thames in the middle of winter and I’m stupid?!” He’s getting red in the face; perfect.

I shrug. “I had a good time, and that’s the only thing that matters.”

He goes even redder, falls into another tirade; I’m only half listening…before I ran into him, I ran into Tommy, who slipped me something, though I don’t even know what…it’s enough to take the edge off the craving, long enough to keep me sane, which is all I need.

“And what the fuck is the chick doing here?!”

“Hmm?”

“The girl, the girl you brought with you. Please tell me you’re not married.”

I laugh, unavoidably. “Are you mistaking me for T-Bone, Doc?”

“Just answer my question, you little punk.”

I’m still laughing, but I give him what he wants. “She helped me give Fred the slip, so I figured she could come with us.”

“Come with us where, as what? Your date?”

I shrug. “On the tour, as what, I don’t care…she says she wants to work for it, whatever that means. I figured we could just hang out and she’ll do whatever she wants…”

He sighs. “Sixx, you try me.”

“That’s what we pay you for.”

“You don’t pay me…but fine, I’ll talk to her and draw up a contract…tell the others not to fuck her.”

“Aren’t you gonna tell me not to fuck her?”

He snorts, gives me a look I don’t like. “Foregone conclusion.”

He’s gone before I can kick his ass…goddamned little bitch.

- xx - nikki - xx -

Y/N comes back a little while later; I’m lying on my back in my dressing room, having kicked out some groupie who blew me…didn’t feel like getting in her.

She doesn’t even knock, just walks right in. “Your clothes are a fucking mess, but these were less than awful. Why is there a girl crying outside?”

“I didn’t want to fuck her. What took you so long?”

She rolls her eyes. “I had to go through all the shit on the floor to get these…I didn’t think it was possible for someone to make a bigger mess than me.”

“Wait til you see Tommy’s room, you’re lucky I was the one in the water with you.”

“Is Tommy the one with the stick legs?”

I laugh. “Yeah, that’s T-Bone.”

“He told me where you were…gave me a little something.”

A little something is, clearly, blow. “You can do it, if you want. I’m gonna wait til after the show.”

She nods, gets it out on the table, takes a straw out of her pocket, goes for it…I bite my lip, remember how it freaks me out to go on stage that way, why I need to hold back.

She’s wired immediately; finished it all off, thank fuck, or else I’d end up doing what’s left…I corner Tommy outside.

“Dude, got any downers?”

“You’ll fall asleep on the bass, Sixx.”

“Not for me…Y/N/N did all the blow you gave her, she’s gonna need it.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” His voice is annoyingly accusing, but he hands a pill over.

“I’m not her babysitter…she had a straw in her pocket, clearly not new to this.”

- xx - y/n - xx -

“What’s that?” I take it from him, wonder if I can snort it too.

“Downer…you’ll need it, or go into a psycho sesh…you don’t want that, believe me.”

I roll my eyes, but swallow it down; he has the darkest smirk, and it takes everything in me not to bite him.

- xx - y/n - xx -

By the time they’re on stage, everything is perfect; the music is wild, just like the lights in my head, psychedelic.

It feels like two seconds and forever, and then he’s back, hugging me, and I really do want to bite him, for an entirely different reason.

We end up in his hotel room, somehow, the way a blur; he sniffs some, and then we’re half naked on the bed, doing fuck knows what.

I wonder for a second if this is a good idea, but then he has his teeth in my neck, and I don’t give enough of a shit to fight him, digging into his back, making him gasp.

We’re too wired to fuck, but we bite each other over every inch we can find, until we’re too exhausted to keep our eyes open, and then it’s all over.