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bluebirdwrites · 4 years ago

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> friendship is fragile wc; 1.4 k pairing; matsukawa x gn!reader summary; just friends don’t look friends the way you look at him, and just friends don’t smile at you the way he smiles at you.

Whenever you hear someone say Monday, your thoughts always allude to something dreary. Whether it be the double period of mathematics, lack of coffee in the vending machine that only seems to occur on Mondays, or weekly morning assemblies that always went on for far too long.

This Monday in particular, felt extra long. This Monday, aside from all its usual regularities, also brought with it the rain. Cold, icy, fat rain droplets that made water pool along walkways and specks of muddied rainwater to coat your legs.

The only upside was that Mattsun had no practice today; and it was tradition to walk home together on Mondays after school.

But, you suppose, today isn’t exactly ideal conditions for walking. This was only further emphasised by the fact not only had you left your umbrella in your last period class, a double period of mathematics, which you had been very eager to leave, thank you very much; but, the classroom was now locked.

Maybe Mondays hate me as much as I hate them.

Sprinting home was the only option either of you could think of at the time; maybe the two of you should have thought some more.

Upon reaching your house you were able to think of three universal truths at the exact same time. First, come hell or high water, Mondays sucked. Second, your school uniform was uncomfortable and almost itchy when wet. Third, Mattsun loved the rain and you thought he was crazy to be smiling to himself like he was because of it.

You were more than happy to collapse into a wet heap once the front door to your house was wrenched open, but you knew Mattsun take that opportunity to tease you, something he did often enough already.

Faintly, as you peel back hair stuck to your skin, you’re aware of the front door closing and the wet sounds of Mattsun shuffling around somewhere near you.

For a moment there is quiet. You take this moment to observe him, observe that he doesn’t seem to be shivering at all and that his cheeks are flushed and water droplets make his hair look shaggy.

The quiet is interrupted by telltale laughter and the sound of his hair flopping about his head as he leans forwards, water droplets hitting you in the face and neck, your hands flopping forwards in attempts to stop him as he dances away from your reach.

Stupid volleyball player and his stupid laugh.

He’s smiling from ear to ear, no longer smirking and looking rather proud of himself. He always smiles at you after something like this, unadulteratedly happy with the dimple in his left cheek on proud display.

You roll your eyes and turn to walk further into the house, throwing an offering of grabbing some towels from your bathroom over your shoulder and listening as he follows, but like always you linger on his smile. You like his smile.

His hair frizzes with friction from the towelling you give it, occasionally sharing his softened grin. It’s only after you’re both dryer than previous, no longer drenched in the torrents of water that had fallen from the sky, that you settle into your usual routine with him.

The music playing from his phone which you’d commandeered, and the sounds of him rustling through your pantry for food, brings a comfortable silence and familiarity which you allow yourself to bask in.

I swear he never stops thinking about food.

You think you like this sense of familiarity you’ve cultivated with him. You like that, as your eyes drag from his left shoulder to his right, you know he feels it too. You know that he is a great friend- important person, in your life.

You change the song to something more mellow, that you tap your fingers to against your thigh, sat on your kitchen counter and waiting for him to find what he’d been searching for.

When he turns he’s got- of course he’s got those. The last packet of them too. damn him. He is impervious to your thoughts as his steps echo through the room in contrast to the melody of the song, blasting from the speakers of his phone.

He’s close to your side. You know this, because Mattsun is always close to your side. You know this because he is warm, despite how cool it is outside. You’re made incredibly aware of his closeness when an elbow jabs into the flesh of your ribs. He looks smug.

Exactly like he wanted, he’s got you to look at him, why wouldn’t he be smug? Then he’s smiling. Smiling again. Smiling at you. Smiling at how unaware you are, that his eyes are soft and his smile is softer still.

You notice his arm moving at his side a moment or two before his hand encroaches your vision, before a muted sharpness accompanies the flick of his fingers against your forehead, “Dummy. I can’t believe you forgot the umbrellas.”

At your unamused huff, the tips of his fingers linger as they smooth over the skin he’d flicked, before they gently trail to your temple, to your cheekbone; before his hand falls back limp to the counter at his side.

Blinking momentarily at the movement of his hand, your eyes linger over his face as your ears chase the softness of his voice whilst your cheeks fight against the fluster you’re in, “And whose idea was it, to give me their umbrella as well?”

His head angles towards yours, chin tucked towards his chest and expression vaguely resembling a lazy cat as his mouth quirks back into a smirk, “Makki, obviously.”

You allow him this and snort to yourself, leaning a short distance to the side to lean into him. You aren’t sure when his arm winds around your shoulder to rest against your side, and you aren’t sure when you start feeding him pieces of food from the packet he’d grabbed from the cupboard. But things are peaceful again. The quiet is welcome. It is easy- just like existing with Matsukawa is as easy as breathing.

You are aware when his arm tightens around you however, because his head is angled towards you and the music playing from his phone fills the silence.

You aren’t aware of his expression, though. You don’t know that his face is relaxed, that his mouth is parted and dry. You have no clue that he is hyper aware of you, and you definitely don’t know about the butterflies in his stomach.

But, he hopes you feel just as lovesick about him as he does about you.

“Issei, thank you- for making sure I ate earlier. You always make sure I’m taking care of myself.”

Again, you don’t see his smile. You don’t see how much he’s letting himself slip in this moment, how close he is to turning the tables on the friendship that is already so fragile. But, he doesn’t see the way you look at him either, eyes staring like he’d ripped the stars from the sky and had lay them in your hands.

The silence lasts what is only moments. It lasts until his hands frame your face and press lightly into the fat of your cheeks, tilting your head to the right as his hands give a light squeeze to your face, “I like making sure you’re okay. Seeing your happy face.”

Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

You look down as his hands, again, drop to the counter at your side and butterflies swarm and stampede their wings in your chest cavity. You feel unnaturally warm. Your palms feel clammy, you’re positive your knees would be weak if you were standing, and your arms feel like lead.

This is it. He thinks he knows how to approach the fragility of this friendship. How to navigate the shards of it, because he’s about to metaphorically shatter it, catch the shards and hopefully build something new with you.

You wonder suddenly, so suddenly that you stop breathing for a few beats, if he’s always smiled at you like that. If the way you looked at him was obvious to him like it seemed to you.

I like your happy face too.

He opens his mouth to speak, but instead takes note of the food packaging still in your hands. He clears his throat, “Gotta tell you something, after you finish feeding me these.”

The way you look at him, tells him every he needs to know. And the way he smiles back at you, assures you in that moment that you will like this next conversation. Very much.

NOTES.. !!

not sure abt this one & the charactisation but whatevs, this is the longest yet + wrote becos ive had matsukawa brainrot, this is self indulgent n pretty fluffy to celebrate completing a v important exam today :p ++ if you liked makes a lil request or just send a chat <3

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ineloqueent · 4 years ago

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Starstruck: Part 10

Brian May x Fem!Reader

This is Part 10 of a multi-part fic. Click the links below to read the Masterpost, the previous part, or the next part of the fic :)

Masterpost / Part 9 / Part 11

Summary: When studying at Imperial College in the 1970s, your path is crossed by a beautiful boy as much in love with the stars as you.

Warnings: swearing

Historical Inaccuracies:

Crystal did not join Queen until November of 1975

There is no attic bedroom at Ridge Farm

Word Count: 6.6k

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Before you knew it, it was June, and you were packing your suitcase with the last of the things you were taking home for the summer holidays.

You were absolutely ecstatic to have this year’s exams finished, especially because you’d made very high marks on Carmichael’s final assessment. Brian had done well too, turning around excitedly in his chair when he was handed back his test, waving the paper in your direction with a brilliant smile as he pointed to the percentage marked in red. You’d made a clapping motion in his direction, and he’d mouthed thank you. The gratitude shone in his eyes, and happiness bubbled up inside you at what an improvement you’d helped him to make.

Today, however, frazzled nerves replaced elation, your insides tumbling and your hands unable to stay steady for very long at a time. Today was the day that you would go with Freddie, Roger, Deacy, and Brian to your home at Ridge Farm. Today was the day that you would join two halves of your life, and having never imagined that they would coincide, you were anxious about how it would go.

The day after the expedition to Zandra Rhodes’ flat, you had called your parents to discuss the notion of Queen coming to stay and to use the studio. Your dad had been thrilled, overjoyed that a real band was coming to use his studio, a studio he’d worked so hard to design and to build and to maintain. Your mum was pleased too— it was a long time since you’d had friends over, and she was happy to finally be meeting the people you now spent the majority of your time with, to put faces to names. Your brother would be home too, but, your mum said, “As he’s not yet got up and it’s two in the afternoon, he gets no say in the matter.” And so it was decided that Queen would be spending the summer of ‘75 at Ridge Farm.

Heather, Veronica, and the often-elsewhere Mary Austin would also be joining the party, and plus two roadies, your number totalled to ten. Roger, as the only one with a car, was taking himself, Heather, Freddie, Mary, and his roadie Chris— though everyone called him Crystal— up to the farm. You, Brian, Deacs, Veronica, and John Harris— another of Queen’s roadies— were to take the train.

It was a quarter past one in the afternoon when you shut your suitcase, tossed on a pair of sunglasses, and bid your other housemates goodbye for the summer. Heather, who was to play the role of navigator for Roger, had gone on ahead to his flat because it would take a little longer to reach Surrey by car than by train. You were headed to the Waterloo Station to meet the others in time for the train’s departure at 13:39 for an estimated arrival at Epsom, Surrey, at 14:23.

When you opened your front door, you were surprised to find none other than Zandra Rhodes with her hand raised to knock.

“Oh, hello!” she said brightly. “I was just coming to find you.”

“Me?” you laughed. “How do you even know where I live?”

She shrugged. “Freddie.”

“Ah.”

“Quite.”

You hesitated. “I’d say come in and have a cup of tea, but I’m actually on my way to the train station,” you winced apologetically.

Zandra waved her hand. “It’s fine. I’m busy myself. And I assume today is the day that the band goes off to the countryside? Freddie mentioned,” she explained.

“Yep, off to write an album!”

“Must be so exciting, all that musician stuff,” Zandra mused, shaking her head. “Anyhow, I’m here to give you this.” She handed you a soft parcel wrapped in plain brown paper and tied up with white string. “Go on, open it. You may want to take it with you.”

You looked at her questioningly before setting down your bag so as to free your hands. You pulled at the string and it fell free of the package, which in turn fell open. Inside lay a swath of sparkly black fabric.

Lifting it up from the wrapping paper, you admired what Zandra had turned into a blouse. With a deep v-neck slit, little buttons down the abdomen, a cinched-tie waist and long, cinched sleeves, the blouse was the picture of elegance. It reminded you of the night sky.

“Zandra, it’s beautiful,” you smiled at her. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she said. “But, you owe it to yourself to try to impress a certain someone, wearing that top.”

“I haven’t got anyone to—”

“Oh, sure you do!” she exclaimed, such great spirit that it did not cross your mind to contradict her again. “Let me know how it goes when you get back to London, yeah?”

You pressed your lips together. Nothing was going to happen. Nothing ever did.

“Will do,” you said. “And thanks again. Truly, it’s lovely.”

“I know. Have fun!” she waggled her fingers in a wave and looked both ways before striding across the road.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

From Camden you made for Waterloo, and shortly after you arrived, you spotted Brian.

At the familiar sight of gangly limbs paired with a slim figure and a mass of curly hair, standing on the platform with his head bowed over whatever it was he held in his hands, relief spread through you like a warm cup of tea on a cold day. Everything would be okay. This was Deacy and Ronnie and Roadie-John you were bringing to your home. This was Bri— this was your friend you were bringing to your home, not a stranger.

Strangers did not make you feel like this.

Approaching, you found the others close by, chatting and laughing and sharing bags of crisps. Deacy and Ronnie waved at you and John Harris grinned.

Brian looked up when you neared him, and he flashed you a bright little smile, which you couldn’t help but return— his cheeks were rosy and his eyes crinkled, and you would have died for that smile.

Then he raised his Polaroid camera in your direction and clicked the button.

“Brian!” you exclaimed, knowing that there was no way that photo could have turned out well. “Why’d you do that?”

He pulled the photograph from where the camera was spitting it out, shaking it lightly and letting the camera strap hold the camera for him as he shielded his face from the sun with his other hand.

“Candid,” he said happily. “First of many.”

“Not on my watch,” you narrowed your eyes. “Let me see.” You snatched for the photo, but tall and long-limbed as he was, Brian simply extended his arm above his head and held the Polaroid out of your grasp.

His smile was amused when you glared at him for his betrayal, but you weren’t about to give up. You jumped and reached, but he stepped sidelong and shook his head.

“No. You’ll never let me keep it,” he said, sticking out his bottom lip in a rather petulant pout.

At the idea of him keeping a photograph of you— why? did he think of you?— a tingle ran down your sides, but you quelled all straying thoughts when you remembered that you probably looked terrible in said photograph.

“Bri,” you crossed your arms obstinately, “it’s mine. Give it to me, please.”

He continued to pout, but then sighed. “Fine.” he said, lowering his hand and holding the photograph out to you. You took it slowly, cautious not to let your fingers brush his. “But really, don’t throw it away. You look lovely.”

Before you could hide the blush that rose to your cheeks at his remark, he winked, and turning away, he called out for the other three to smile!, taking the picture before anyone could react.

You pushed your sunglasses up onto your head and squinted at the Polaroid picture in the sunshine.

Your gaze had been directed upwards, toward Brian, your chin was lifted in a manner that looked almost proud, or in the very least confident. Your sunglasses had briefly slipped down your nose at the moment the picture had been taken, and so your eyes could be seen, bright and animated in the warm light of the sunny afternoon, and the hair was blown away from your face— sunlight emphasised the dips and planes of your features. You’d worn a sundress because the weather was for once for it, and it had rustled in the wind, sweeping around your legs; you were painted in elegance.

Brian was right.

You looked lovely.

But perhaps the craftsmanship of the photo played a part as well. Despite being a hastily-snapped candid, the photo was framed perfectly, and the light that illuminated your figure was well-contrasted. It was art, in yet another form; Brian seemed inherently capable of creating art in any and every moment. And he certainly knew how to pick his moments. In photography, at least.

“Y/N!” John called to you, and all the others turned to you expectantly. “Train’s here.”

Sure enough, the clock hanging above the platform matched the departure time printed on your ticket. You hurried over with your bags, which was quite a feat, given you had your messenger bag, your guitar in its case— Brian had encouraged you to bring it— and your suitcase. The others were equally badly off— Deacy carrying his bass, Brian with not one but two guitars, Roadie-John with packed-up amplifiers and cords, and everyone carrying suitcases. Deacy in particular looked strained, having insisted upon carrying some of his wife’s things so that her load would be lessened, but subsequently, his own was significantly worsened. You made quite the group.

You caught up with the others and with a few quick hello’s the five of you shuffled alongside the rest of the crowd toward the train carriages.

Brian was at your side and nudged your elbow. “Guitar looks heavy,” he said.

“Mmm…” you murmured. “Some idiot suggested I bring it along.”

He chuckled warmly, and despite the sunny weather, you longed to move closer to his warmth. “I’d offer to carry it for you, but I’m rather decked out myself.”

You sniffed. “I suppose it’s the thought that counts.”

Just then, a man in a time-worn jacket jostled you, and you stumbled.

“Excuse me,” you muttered. But the man continued to try to push past you, past anyone who stood in his way.

You glanced over at Brian to roll your eyes at the man’s behaviour, but Brian’s face had taken on a peculiarly pinched look. He looked angry.

“Oi, mate,” Brian raised his voice slightly. The man didn’t react. “Hey,” Brian said when you got shoved for the third time. He stepped forward. “Hey, watch it!”

The man whirled around with an equally angry expression, but Brian was taller, and he made that fact quite obvious, leaning down and glowering at the other man. Shoulders stiff and eyes dark, though he had no hands free with which to defend himself should the situation take a violent turn, Brian glared with such scorn at the man who’d run into you that anyone would’ve rightly wilted beneath his gaze.

“Bri,” you said, hoisting your guitar onto your back, “let it go.” Brian didn’t move, though the other man bared his teeth. He stared past you like you didn’t exist. Then the rugged man spat on Brian’s clogs, and Brian lurched forward in fury, his bag and cases landing on the ground.

You were quick to step between the two men, placing your palm firmly against Brian’s chest. That caught his attention— his heartbeat quickened beneath your splayed fingers.

“Let it go,” you repeated.

Brian’s eyes flickered, then met yours. You stared down his intensity, unwilling to back down, though your lungs and their rapid intake of breath were inclined to disagree.

His eyes were melted toffee, and beneath them, you could have melted as well. But then Brian inhaled carefully, and with a gentle touch, pried your fingers off of his chest.

He nodded to you in promise to not antagonise the other man any further, then let go of your hand.

You would have intertwined your fingers with his and held them there, if the crowd hadn’t begun moving again.

And if you’d had the courage.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

The train sprinted along the tracks from Waterloo to Epsom, and the journey passed quickly. Your arrival in Surrey was perfectly on time, and this day, the weather in your home county was no less pretty than that of London.

From Epsom Station to Ridge Farm was another half-hour or so, but luckily, your dad owned a minibus and was waiting at the station to pick you and the others up.

“Y/N!” your dad called when he saw you.

“Dad!” you rushed forward and dropped your bags, flinging your arms around him. You hadn’t seen him for months, and had spoken to him only every few weeks; you weren’t going to be embarrassed for being happy to see your dad.

“Missed you, love,” he squeezed you tightly.

“Missed you too.”

Then you stepped back so as to introduce the others.

“So we’ve got exactly half of the band here, and the other half I think we’ll intercept on the way home,” you said. “This is John Deacon, bassist and vocalist—”

John laughed. “No no, I can’t sing, Y/N. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Andrews,” he shook hands with your dad. “This is my beautiful wife Veronica,” he beamed upon introducing her. The two of them were so in love, it was ridiculous.

“Hi!” Ronnie said, hardly taking her big eyes off of Deacy.

“Hello there,” your dad greeted them.

“And this is our second John, who crews and just generally is a great help,” you said as Roadie-John strode forward.

“John Harris. But everyone just calls me Roadie-John, to sorta prevent confusion with Deacy over there,” he jabbed his thumb in Deacy’s direction, and your dad laughed amicably.

“So they call you Deacy, then?” he asked John, John Deacon.

“Yeah, or Deacs, or something like that. Seems to have stuck.”

Your dad laughed again, and you smiled, pleased. It seemed he and Deacy would get along well.

Then Brian caught your eye timidly. He looked a bit lost, like meeting new people wasn’t his strong suit. It probably wasn’t— Brian very much conformed to the initially-shy-and-awkward stereotype of an astrophysicist.

“Oh dear, sorry Bri,” you apologised. “Dad, this is Brian.”

“Hello,” Brian said, extending his hand. Your dad shook it.

“So what do you play, Brian…”

“Brian May, Mr. Andrews.”

“Brian May. What do you play then, Brian May?”

“Oh, I play guitar.”

“Any good?” your dad inquired.

“I—”

“Very good,” you interrupted. “He’s actually been helping me to learn to play,” you said, pride in your voice.

“Has he really?” your dad muttered in an odd tone. “My Y/N’s been having quite the trouble learning.”

“Dad…”

“Really? She’s a natural!” Brian smiled disarmingly, but your dad’s expression was set.

“We’ll see,” your dad responded, and you thought he looked rather standoffish. Brian’s shoulders seemed to droop.

You frowned.

“Uh, sha’ we get going, then?” Roadie-John stepped in.

“Yep, yeah, sounds good!” you patted your dad’s shoulder and he made a noise of agreement. He took your bag for you, and took one from Ronnie as well.

“Thank you. Those things are heavy,” she said.

“I’m not actually a rotten husband,” Deacy added, “I’ve just already got my hands full.”

“No one thinks you’re a rotten husband,” Ronnie pulled her arm around Deacy’s waist and leaned her head on his shoulder as you all followed your dad toward parking.

“Well thank goodness for that,” Deacy responded, and Veronica brushed his hair away from his face.

You were so distracted by how Deacy and Ronnie looked at each other, with such unyielding affection and warmth, that you didn’t notice Brian until he was next to you, the sleeve of his cream-coloured jacket brushing your hand.

“Hey,” he murmured, and you slowed your pace, guessing correctly that he wanted to talk apart from the others.

“Hey,” you said back. “What’s up?”

“Um… I don’t… I don’t think…” He stopped, then tried again. “What did I say wrong?” His eyes were soft and pitiful, and he looked so genuinely crushed that you almost threw your arms around him. “To your dad,” he continued. “I think I said something wrong.”

“Brian, what could you possibly have said wrong?”

His curls bobbed as he shook his head. “I’m not entirely sure, but I don’t think your dad’s pleased with me, all the same.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” you said. “He gets like that sometimes, when I introduce my friends. He’s a bit protective of me, I think.”

Brian bit his lip and made no response.

“Cheer up, Bri,” you nudged his side. “You can’t possibly look so sad when you get to spend an entire summer with me.”

“Half. Half a summer,” he corrected you. “D’you think I’ll last that long?”

His grin was brazen and his tongue poked out between his teeth.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re on thin ice, Brian May.”

He only went on smiling.

And you’ll surely melt the rest with that sunny smile of yours.

But no, you had it wrong. He would not melt the ice. He would melt you.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

The car ride from the station to your home was mostly uneventful, but as you’d predicted, Deacy and your dad got on like a house on fire. Your dad had studied electrical engineering, which John was studying now, and he played many instruments, including bass guitar. The two were currently occupied discussing electric pianos, and the one that your dad owned, which Deacy now wanted to learn to play.

Veronica and Roadie-John spent the journey playing weird road trip games, half of which you’d never even heard of. You resolved they’d made a few of them up on the spot.

You’d stared out the window, watching the landmarks of your childhood pass you by, pointing out a few of them to Brian who sat beside you. He appeared very interested in it all, to understand where it was you’d grown up, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning your school, an ice cream parlour you’d frequented ever since you were little, and finally, about the lush woods that surrounded the wealth of land that was Ridge Farm. You were happy to answer his questions, and to ask your own of him. He told many stories, and he told them well, upon one occasion eliciting so much laughter from you that your dad raised his eyebrows at you in the rearview mirror.

When the minibus finally rolled up the drive to the main house, your mum stood waving, and your family’s dog, Selkie, bounded back and forth with his tail wagging madly.

Then, Roger’s shiny red Alfa Romeo pulled up beside the minibus, just as you were getting out. Music was blaring, and everyone’s hair was thoroughly windblown.

“Did you even remember sunscreen?” Brian called to the passengers, pulling his guitars from the boot of the minibus.

“Nice to see you too, Bri,” Roger responded, giving Heather a hand out of the car.

“No,” said Mary, trying in vain to comb her hair into some semblance of a ponytail, “we definitely forgot sunscreen.” Gingerly, she touched a finger to the tip of her nose, which was looking rather pink, and winced. “Definitely forgot,” she muttered.

“You’re all pasty-pale,” Freddie laughed, fixing his hair.

“Well,” Crystal returned, “aren’t you lucky, Fred?”

“To be honest,” Heather was swaying slightly on the spot, “I’m not feeling too great. You drive too fast for me, I think, Roger.”

He kissed her cheek. “‘Course I don’t! Have a glass of water and you’ll be perfectly lovely again.”

Heather whacked his arm. “Cheeky.”

Your mum approached the scene, smiling with amusement at the various interactions going on around her.

“Mum!” you said, hugging her tightly. “You’re not at the pub?” Your mum ran the local pub— The Plough— and could thus be found there quite often.

“Hello my darling,” she kissed your cheek. “No, I got your brother to cover for me. It’s good to see you.” She pulled back from the embrace and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “You don’t call nearly often enough.”

“Sorry,” you winced, crouching down to scratch Selkie behind his big, floppy ears as the golden retriever panted happily, having run to you upon seeing you.

“You’re here now, so no need to be sorry!” She smiled her bright smile, the one that never failed to cheer you up, to comfort you, and you knew that she meant what she said. Your mum always meant what she said. It was both a blessing and a curse.

A whirlwind of introductions followed, and apologies too, because your mum worried she’d forget the names of nine new people as quickly as she’d been told them. Of course, no one minded; there would be plenty of time for everyone to get to know each other. Six weeks, to be exact.

Then there was the matter of accommodation. Your parents had yielded the main house to you all, preferring themselves to retreat to the smaller building farther up on the farm. Frank had his granny flat down the path from the main drive, so that left you, the band, their partners, and the roadies divided amongst six bedrooms.

You had your childhood bedroom, Freddie and Mary took a room, Roger and Heather took another, Deacy and Veronica a third. Meanwhile, Brian, Roadie-John, and Crystal drew straws to see who would be sharing and who would get their own room. In the end, Roadie-John and Crystal drew the shorter two straws and ended up in the bunk-beds of the room that your two brothers Frank and Billy had once shared. Brian had looked much relieved by this turn-out, because, as he told you— “My legs wouldn’t have fit on that bed!”

“Well, good you got the room to yourself,” you’d responded. “Though, you could easily have guilted me into giving up my bed to you.”

Brian had laughed, rather nervously. A blush rose to your face when you’d realised how your remark must have sounded. Deacy had then made the incident twenty times worse by turning to you and saying “Y/N, was that an innuendo? I’m proud of you!”

This had resulted in further blushing on your part, and in Brian stuttering out some weak-reasoned excuse about going to unpack.

“What’s his problem?” Crystal had asked, and Freddie had snorted.

“Think for a second, Chris,” Roadie-John had cuffed the back of his mate’s neck.

“Yeah thanks John, that’s going to help me think, you idiot.”

“You don’t need to think, Crystal,” Roger had shaken his head. “It’s pretty bloody obvious.”

“If it’s so bloody obvious, Rog,” you’d interrupted, crossing your arms, “then would you mind pointing it out to me?”

“Oh, darling,” Mary had said to you, almost pityingly, while Roger had laughed.

“No, Y/N, Roger sha’n’t tell you, and nor shall anybody else,” Freddie had put it plainly. “You’ll be blind a while yet.”

And with that cryptic comment, he had wrapped an arm around Mary’s shoulders and dragged the others with him to explore the house and grounds.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

When the sky turned orange and all the land below it golden, your dad had tea ready. He loved to cook and had thus created a masterpiece of salads, grilled vegetables, barbecue, homemade bread, and a variety of dips.

Summer was finally setting in, and so, even in the glow of the six o’clock evening, the sun would not set for at least another three hours.

You and the others had spent the afternoon unpacking, and setting up instruments in the studio. You’d managed to keep everyone’s attention for long enough to show them around said studio, but then Freddie had insisted on more “exploring”, and the others had followed excitedly. You’d offered to give them a tour, but Freddie argued that exploring was more fun, and everyone had agreed wholeheartedly. Except Brian. He’d been lost in his thoughts, sitting in a corner, tuning his guitar as though he intended to begin a songwriting session then and there.

Heather had then tried, and failed, to convince you to join in the exploration. Failed on account that you needed an hour or two to yourself— hanging around nine people, plus your family, was really quite draining. And when you’d looked about the sunlit studio fondly before leaving it for your own room, Brian was nowhere to be found.

When teatime rolled around, you had not seen him for several hours, and he remained elusive even as your mum, your dad, the others, and even your brother Frank who’d slept the day away, gathered in the dining room.

“Oh, this looks delicious,” said Roger enthusiastically, eyeing the food piled up on the table.

Murmurs of agreement echoed all around, but your dad frowned. “Where’s that Brian May got to?”

“Sebastian,” your mum chided. “It’s been less than two minutes since you called us all in. He’s probably just upstairs or something.” Your mum turned to you. “Y/N, would you go look? I’ve just got to let Selkie out.”

“Yep, sure.”

You left the kitchen and bounded up the stairs, smilingly taking two at a time, now that your legs were long enough. You’d always tried to take them two at a time when you’d been little, but you’d never managed more than one set at a time before falling over your own feet.

It was quickly obvious that there was no one upstairs.

Poking your head into the kitchen, you announced, “He’s not upstairs, but I’ll just check outside. You might as well start.” Your dad looked to your mum for approval, and she shrugged.

“Bon appetit, then,” he said.

You slipped on some canvas shoes and jogged down the main path and to the end of the drive, where you stopped.

“Where’ve you gone, Bri?”

Your eyes fell to the green by the path, where tufts of grass had been pressed down in the memory of footprints. Beyond the grass, there was mud, and there too were footprints. And they really were footprints— the person who had made them did not seem to have been wearing any shoes. You set off following the trail.

Down the hill, skirting a meadow, and through the sand by the bank of the river, you stepped with your shoes into the footsteps that had been left.

Finally, you caught sight of the owner of the footprints.

He stood knee-deep in the river, his back to you and his face turned to the canopy of the trees about him.

Birds streaked across the sky above, merely silhouettes against the bright colours of the sky, and the air glittered as ordinary dust turned to stardust in the golden light of the sun.

The river babbled in an almost talkative manner, greeting you— hellohello slosh rush hellohello— and the creatures in the wood had realised your presence, pausing in their activities no matter how careful you made your footing upon the ground. Brian had not realised anything.

A thrush knocked a seedpod against the base of a tree, and other birds twittered merrily in the branches above. The trees whispered their secrets, rustling and passing their leaves along one another’s boughs like notes, and the grass shone in glory green, dotted white flowers conjuring an aura of magic.

You crept along the edge of the clearing by the river, careful not to let Brian notice you. You wanted to notice him first.

His face was expressive— his parted lips, the soft line of his chin in contrast to the sharpness of his wide hazel eyes. His hands hovered by his sides, slim fingers and wrists, the already lightly-tanned skin of his arms showing where he had pushed up his sleeves. His curls were tossed by the breeze and he stared up to the sky with reckless abandon, as though his entire existence hung upon the breath of starlight that would steal across the sky this night and every night after, as though he would give up anything, everything, to be a star as well.

And you understood that he would, because you would too. Without thought, without a single hesitation. Oh, to be a star.

Brian spun around, the water protesting with splashes about his calves, his shoulders tensed and his eyes now wider than ever.

Oh, you’d said that out loud.

“Y/N,” he said, relaxing almost instantly as he recognised you through the rays of sun that streaked across the clearing. “Yes, I’d like to be a star. What a vantage point that would be. I wonder what I might see differently from up there.”

“Everything,” you said. “You’d see everything differently.” You stared up at the sky, the waning crescent of the moon faintly visible in the glow of evening. But Brian was still looking at you; you could feel it. Your skin prickled.

“Would you come with me?” he asked. When you returned your gaze to him, his smile was gentle.

“Oh, but you wouldn’t need me out there, Spaceman. You know it so well.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but it’s lonely out in space.”

You shook your head. “You’d be a star. You wouldn’t think of loneliness. You wouldn’t think at all.”

“Well, while I still have my thoughts, I think that would be preferable to have someone there with me.”

You couldn’t help but stare at him. In an instant you realised that you had been wrong; you didn’t want to be a star, you wanted to feel how starlight looked— ethereal and inspiring, yet powerful. And the closest you’d ever been to feeling how starlight looked was when Brian looked at you.

“You’d give it all up?” you said, and still he gazed at you.“Really you would?”

He hesitated, then said, “Some days, yes. Others, no.”

“Today?” you asked.

There was that gentle smile again. “No,” he exhaled softly, as though he had been holding his breath. “Not today.”

You smiled. “Then hurry up and come back inside. Tea’s waiting, and my dad’s an excellent cook. If you want to get on his good side, then compliment his food.”

“Do you think it’s still possible for me to get on his good side?” Brian began to wade back to the riverbank. “He seemed rather to have made up his mind, this afternoon.”

You held out your hand to Brian as he approached, planting your feet firmly in the sand. “Careful. The rocks are slippery,” you told him. “And no, I think there’s still hope. He’s not as bad as he seems.”

“Oh, he’s not bad, it’s just—” Brian had not heeded your warning and pitched forward. You grasped his hand just before he fell, and he smiled at you gratefully. His fingers were warm where they curled around your own. “It’s just me. I don’t think he likes me.”

“Brian,” you guided him around a particularly mossy rock, “why on Earth does this bother you so much? I’ve never heard you talk like this,” you said honestly.

He finally made it to the riverbank, and the sand dusted his toes, his cuffed trousers dripping water, soaked through because he hadn’t folded them up far enough. “Clearly, you haven’t spent enough time with me. Not to worry, though. Soon to be remedied.”

“Brian.”

He huffed. “Because it’s you, Y/N,” he said, and your heart rose to your throat. “I don’t usually care who doesn’t like me, but they’re your family and you’re my friend.”

Your heart sank.

Once, your insides had warmed when he’d called you his friend, but now things were different. You wanted more from him than just that, and you could admit as much to yourself, even if you couldn’t admit it to anybody else.

But his hand still rested in yours.

Take what you can get. It’s all you’ll ever have.

Your hand curled more tightly around his long, dainty fingers.

He glanced at you, and you realised that you had not said anything for a while. You’d been walking through the wood for minutes and you had not spoken a word, only held his hand, as though you had a right to. You didn’t though, did you?

You pulled your hand from his, and it felt like a severance when he let go.

“Shoes,” you murmured.

“Sorry?”

“You’re not wearing any shoes,” you laughed at the silliness of it.

He looked down at his bare feet and laughed too. “No, I’m not.”

“Why on Earth not?”

“Why on Earth should I?”

“Why not on Earth should you not?”

“Why not on Earth should I not not wear shoes?”

You stopped walking. “You’re absurd.”

He grinned. “And you’re an angel.”

“Oh, so I’m that far gone, am I?”

“Not as far as me.”

“It’s lonely out in space,” you repeated his words from earlier.

“You know,” Brian began as the two of you crested the final hill that led up to the house. “Think I’ll stay around.”

The breeze rustled his curls, and his eyes were bright, his profile illuminated by the sun. A small smile rested on the curve of his lips, and you couldn’t believe that he was real.

You were breathless; he took your breath away.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

Tea was not the awkward affair you had expected, with your dad and Brian skirting around each other. It was instead talkative and homely, like the nine extra people at your table had always been a part of your family. It was a shame your brother Billy had decided to stay abroad with his mates this summer; he would have loved all this.

The table itself was taking the meal quite well— it held up, despite the great amount of food and plates and cutlery and glasses and bowls and napkins and trays piled atop its oakwood surface.

It was quite an arrangement, thirteen people around the same dining table, and chairs had been fetched from all over the house, from stools to desk chairs. Perhaps the feeling of closeness amongst you all had been achieved through literal closeness, seeing as the dining table was not meant for more than eight people, and certainly not for thirteen. Knees and elbows knocked, and you had the fortune to be seated next to Bri, whose hand or thigh bumped yours quite often as he reached for something or picked up his knife and fork. He apologised frequently, and every time he apologised and you assured him that it was fine, your stares grew longer and his eyes grew softer.

You could have gazed at him forever. And spoken to him forever, too.

The occupants of the table both roared with laughter and listened attentively as stories both utterly silly and quite serious were shared. There were tales from childhood; tales of Queen from before your time, when they were known as Smile; tales you already knew; tales you had experienced as they had happened, including the recent story of how Roger had plotted and executed his master plan of locking you and Brian in the kitchen. You laughed harder than anyone at that story, because in hindsight, it just seemed so silly, so ridiculous, how angry you and Brian had both been, not at each other, but at being locked into the kitchen with one another. Brian had been sure to describe— in detail— the look on your face when you’d realised that Roger, John, and Freddie had left you in the kitchen, to your own devices.

Your face ached from smiling, and your stomach hurt from laughing, and it was the best pain in the entire world. You wanted to feel like this forever, both young and old at once, young in spirit but wisened by nostalgia and an already great wealth of memories.

And with every glance you stole at Brian, to gauge his reaction to a particular story, or indeed, to nothing in particular at all, you were closer to reaching over and taking his hand in yours again, sliding your hand over the smooth skin of his wrist and palm, and along his slim fingers.

But you didn’t do it. His hands were not yours to hold.

When tea was finished, yawns began to make appearances between words, because it was good and well eleven o’clock at night. You all helped to clear the table and stow leftovers into the fridge, the chatter never ceasing as you communed between the dining room and kitchen. Your dad even broke into song at one point— he’d probably had a little too much to drink— and Roger joined in without hesitation, which led to Heather’s participation, and Ronnie’s, and Deacy’s, and yours, until the entire house was filled with the melodic tune of thirteen people singing ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’. Your dad swung your mum around the kitchen and she laughed as they danced, and you couldn’t remember the last time your parents had been so carefree. Something about the dynamic of the people around you was extraordinary, and irreplaceable.

It was midnight when you had bid your parents, Frank, and the members of your entourage that had the downstairs bedrooms— Freddie and Mary, Roger and Heather, Ronnie and Deacy— a good night.

Upstairs you trudged alongside Roadie-John, Crystal, and Brian, the former two of whom were arguing about who was to sleep in the top bunk, and who was to sleep in the lower bunk.

At the top of the stairs, Crystal and Roadie-John departed to the left.

“Night,” they chorused, and you and Brian responded in kind.

You made for the last set of stairs that led to your attic bedroom, which you’d always favoured because of its view to the open sky, but you stopped on the first step. You had remembered the polaroid Brian had taken of you, and it burned through your pocket.

You turned back.

“Brian—”

“Yes?”

He had turned back too. Eurydice and Orpheus. If they had both been obligated not to turn back. And had turned back all the same.

The words left your lips in a breathless rush, “Your photograph.”

“My photograph?” he wondered aloud.

You descended the step you’d climbed and walked toward him. His eyes trailed you, and your skin felt warm beneath his gaze.

You held the polaroid out to him, and it felt as though you were handing him your soul. “Have it.”

He blinked at you. “But I thought—”

“You thought I hated it? Yeah, I thought so too. But it’s art. Just like everything else you do. And it belongs to you.”

His lips parted and the world was suspended in that moment.

He took the photograph from your hand, but he barely looked at it. He was looking at you— like he was going to do something.

But of course he wouldn’t. You and your overactive imagination.

“Good night, Bri,” you whispered, and swept up the stairs.

There was no reply.

⁺˚*·༓☾ ☽༓･*˚⁺

A/N: the sheer amount of love i have received on this fic is just mind-boggling, not to mention incredibly touching. thank you <3

taglist: @melting-obelisks @stardust-killer-queen @hgmercury39 @topsecretdeacon @joemazzmatazz @perriwiinkle @brianmays-hair

Masterpost / Part 9 / Part 11

#tina's writing #starstruck #brian may #brian may x reader #brian may x y/n #brian may x you #queen #freddie mercury #roger taylor #john deacon #queen fanfiction #1975 #1970s #fic

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mellifluoushood · 5 years ago

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okay since you said someone (I forget the tag, my apologies!) bought you edibles, I’m assuming you have some sort of experience with them, so would you ever be willing to write about getting high/doing edibles with Calum or better yet Cashton? I love your writing so much! xx

ah yes, @calumscalm bought me edibles because she is a doll and i love nadya

i have experience smoking, but i don’t have any experience with edibles, that’s why nadya decided to order some for me lol. but, i have several fics about getting stoned with calum, but i don’t have any with both calum and ashton. so, here you go my dear! i hope smoking with the both of them will do! if not, send in another request about edibles specifically and i’ll write it after i’ve tried them!

here are the calum fics i was talking about: (thin white lies) and today, i saw the whole world, and it was right in front of me (this contains smut!)

A/N: also, warning, this got a lot smuttier than i intended, but hey uh, here we are. there’s no sex but there’s sexual imagery.

“Why are we listening to Kid Cudi?” Ashton asks, his nimble fingers taking the joint from his mate’s grasp. Calum rolls his eyes, resting his head on the back of the sofa, looking at the dark, curly haired man with absolute annoyance.

“Because why not?” He scoffs, letting his eyes flutter shut as he listens to the remix she had gotten him hooked on.

“There’s two types of music you listen to when you’re stoned,” Ashton comments, wrapping his lips around the roach and inhaling. He feels the smooth smoke coat his mouth and throat, dissipating into his bloodstream before he inhales again, bringing the smoke into his lungs. He sits, holding in the breath before exhaling slowly, feeling the warmth of the buzz weaving into his brain and his eyelids. He repeats his motions, each time experimenting with the way he exhales: the first was through his nose, then letting it drift out his mouth and inhaling the smoke through his nose before letting it out again, then through circular rings. She watches with curiosity, surprised that he was able to French inhale.

“You guys and me,” he finishes his thoughts from minutes before. Calum rolls his eyes again,

“You’re telling me smooth rap with a strong beat that hits your chest is not the music to listen to when you’re stoned?” Calum asks. She stands up from the couch, stretching slightly. Ashton uses his free hand to tap his friend’s ass. She whips her head around, narrowing her eyes at him before smiling,

“Cheeky bastard,” her accent is thick and wraps around the words like Ashton’s lips continue to wrap around the joint. She pushes the coffee table in front of the sofa to the side so she can lay on the plush carpet of Calum’s living room. It’s soft to the touch, caressing the skin of her midsection that her crop top and gym shorts didn’t cover. Her eyes are hazy, looking up at the two men on the sofa in front of her. Ashton’s thighs are covered in gym shorts whilst Calum sports grey sweatpants. Both opt to remain shirtless, the heat of the summer seeping through each crack and crevice of Calum’s house.

“You enjoy it,” Ashton muses, taking one last, long toke before passing the woman on the floor the joint. She sits up, aware of their gazes as she takes the first hit off this specific joint. This one was Calum’s, both Ashton and her’s had already made it around the small group. She tilts her head back, basking in the feeling of warmth that hits the back of her head, heating her cheeks and fading her inhibitions. They watch her throat as it bobs around the breath of smoke, bringing it into her lungs. She opens her mouth, not necessarily exhaling, but letting the smoke escape through her parted lips.

“Eh,” the pitch of her voices raises and Ashton can’t help a deep chuckle that escapes his chest. She lays back again, taking another hit off the spliff in between her fingers. Her chest expands and she knows that they’re shamelessly staring at the movement of her breasts.

“Dogs,” she mutters with a small smile on her face. This catches their attention and their eyes land on her’s. Each set of eyes is ringed with red, glazing over as each and every molecule of THC makes a home in their blood cells. She almost laughs at how stereotypically stoned they look, but laughing takes too much effort, and she’s too stoned to give a shit. She sticks the joint in between her lips before mumbling around it, “If I were to take off my shirt and just lay here in my bralette, would you care?”

The men share a look, as if to say to the other, since when would we ever care and shrug their shoulders in response. Her head lulls to the side, looking at them head on, “Good enough for me.” The joint sits on her lips as she fumbles with the bottom of her shirt, pulling the material over her chest and over her shoulders. She’s careful to not bump the lit end and spill ash over herself. She lifts her back and shoulders to rid herself of the shirt and she lays back down, only clad in small shorts and a PINK bralette.

“Why are you lying on the floor?” Calum asks and she rolls her eyes,

“Why aren’t you lying on the floor?” She challenges. Calum shrugs, again, as if it’s the only response he’s capable to giving to other people’s questions. He slides off the couch, joining her and laying on her right side. He admires the soft tickle of the carpet against his sweat licked skin. He turns his head to Ashton,

“Now, you’re the odd one out, again,” he jokes, referencing Ashton’s music comment from earlier. It’s Ashton turn to roll his eyes, before getting up from the couch and occupying her left side. The three of them lay on the floor, height differences between the men and the woman quite humourous. They lay shirtless, skin damp with perspiration as their heads float away. She takes another hit, inhaling into her lungs nearly straight away with another breath. She holds it again for a few seconds before blowing it out.

“Post Malone?” Ashton nearly groans, his voice a near whine when the music switches.

“Oh my god, mate,” Calum groans in return, “shut up and stop fucking complaining.” Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Ashton mimicking Calum’s mouth movements with a scowl. She just chuckles to herself, inhaling again. The room starts to tilt a little, so she takes another hit and passes it to Calum. Calum grabs it with his right hand, clasping onto her thigh with his left in gratitude. His skin his hot but his rings are ice cold, the platinum freezing marks into her skin, causing the flesh of her thighs to erupt in goosebumps. The heat of her high carries towards her centre as she acknowledges the height of Calum’s hand on her leg. His fingers tickle her inner thigh, barely pressing into the skin. She swallows, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, trying to forget the heat of his touch. She exhales, focusing on the sensations that run through her system.

For a while, the only thing she could smell was the weed, but as Ashton and Calum lay close to her, she can smell their cologne sticking to their skin. Ashton’s cologne is bright, refreshing, contrasting to the heavy smell of the weed. Calum’s cologne seems to mix just right, the smell of cigarettes lingering on his fingers adding to the heaviness and woodsiness of his fragrance. She had laid on the ground, hoping to cool down, but the men’s bodies are almost touching her’s, heating radiating off them like they were on fire. She can feel sweat starting to lick the crevice of her breasts and behind her knees at the sudden increase in body heat. The carpet starts to warm up the longer they lay there, but all of a sudden, she’s too tired to move.

Her mind begins to float, listening to some ‘Rockstar’ remix that Calum had put on the queue after her remix of Kid Cudi’s ‘Day ‘N Nite’. The beat of the song thumps through her chest, off rhythm with the beat of her own heart. Her heart is racing, both with the high and the proximity of the two men. She swallows, letting her eyes flutter open at their silence. She turns to look at Calum, to see if he was still puffing on his joint, which he was. He looks down at her, his brown eyes hazy, pupils blown. She smiles up at him and he doesn’t hesitate to respond. He brings the joint to his lips again, the bracelet around his wrist moving and twinkling in the dim light. The chain matches the longer one that dangles around his neck, laying on top of his tattoos. Her eyes cast down to the black ink etched into his skin, admiring the way the black contrasts, yet blends with his brown skin. The sun had tinted it even darker, the melanin casting his complexion the true brown it was when it was tanned by the sun, almost like the Australian sun he had grown up with.

He notices her zoning out and takes the second to tap her inner thigh, she jumps slightly, the sudden pressure dragging her out of her thoughts. She doesn’t bother to apologise, knowing that Calum had seen her admiring him on multiple occasions, and him returning the favour on more than one occasion as well. He hands her the joint, hearing Ashton huff next to her,

“Greedy prick,” Calum mutters as she just laughs, shaking her head and inhaling again. Her gaze turns to Ashton next, who’s already gazing at her. His green eyes are electric, sharply contrasted against the red staining the whites of his eyes. The dark dye of his hair only adds to the contrast, the green and hazel flecks popping. His complexion doesn’t have the same brown undertone to Calum, but he’s tan just the same. Hairs tickle his broad chest, his arms thick as they cross over his chest, in a relaxed manner. He gives her an earth shattering smile, the scruff forming on his cheeks and jaw only emphasising the whiteness of his teeth.

“No, you just suck at sharing,” Ashton comments, eyes never leaving the woman next to him. If both men were to say they hadn’t at least admired her shape at least once that night, they would’ve been caught in a dead lie. They couldn’t help but notice the curve of her breasts, covered with a lacey patterned bralette. The shade of the fabric went nicely with her skin tone. The black gym shorts she had on left little to the imagination, the curvature and girth of her hips stretching the material. A matching lace print could be seen peeking out the top of her shorts. Her legs looked heavenly, moisturised with lotion and absolutely shining luxuriously under the light. Her hair was splayed out beneath her head, leaving her shoulders and collarbones fully exposed. She hadn’t bothered to take out her hoops before laying down. The light bounces off the reflective metal. Her eyes are the most fucked out of the three of them even though her tolerance was better. When Ashton had gone to pick her up from her apartment, her eyes were already burning with red, glassy to soothe the irritation.

“You done?” She asks, taking one last hit of the joint and passing it to Ashton.

“Hm, not yet.” She feels Calum’s hand trail even further up her thigh and she has to resist coughing out her last toke. She manages to swallow down the cough, keeping the smoke in her lungs and exhaling when she was ready. Ashton’s eyes notice Calum’s hand. He places his own hand on her left thigh and she lets out a shaky breath. Their proximity allows to hear the exhalation over the music still playing from the speaker.

“Definitely, not yet,” Calum murmurs turning on his side. Ashton repeats his motions, reaching above his head and stubbing out the joint that wasn’t nearly finished, but something had caught his attention instead.

And she didn’t mind one fucking bit.

taglist: @gigglyirwin @loveroflrh @ammwritings @calumscalm @dukehoods @toofadedtofight @babylon-corgis @talkfastromance4 @thesubtweeter

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carriedawayfromhome · 5 years ago

Note

Hi! Can you do smut with ash Like after a show rough and sweaty everytime you watching him bang the drums it turns you on

Thanks for the request! I did change it slightly from a show to a rehearsal instead. Hope you enjoy! xPairing: Ashton x Reader-Count: 1.9K-Rating: Explicit (Smut)

Masterlist

Requests Open.

There’s something primal, rough, animalistic almost about the way Ashton drums. The force it takes to hit the beat and to play a song is immense. Sometimes you hate the way your eyes wander, from his jean covered thighs to his taut torso, sweaty chest and finally to his face. The concentration he has when he’s in the zone like this is something that you can’t explain, it’s so intense that it makes your lip automatically find its way between your teeth.

Rehearsal has been going all day but you only arrived about two hours ago to watch the boys finish off their practice. You generally like to come near the end of their set, seeing as Ashton by this time is usually so worked up and sweaty. You generally have to stop yourself from jumping up off the couch your currently in, run over to the drum set and hurl yourself into his arms. It’s a big measure in self control and you silently laugh to yourself realising how ridiculous you seem. Thank god no one else in the room knows what’s going on in your head.

Throughout the rehearsal Ashton always makes a habit of finding your face and either making a crude gesture with his eyebrows or just making some face to make you laugh, whilst keeping the beat of the drums. Your boyfriend is one talented man.

The rehearsal starts to wind down and just as the other three men are packing up their part, you make your way over to the drum-kit whilst Ashton tries to wipe the few beads of sweat that have collected there. He beams up at you as you come to stand beside him, “Hey you.” He grabs your right hand in his and holds it to his face, a sigh leaving his lips as your palm comes in contact with his warm cheek.

“This set is going to be so good Ash,” You move your thumb slowly over his cheek bone, the rosy red flush a contrast against your pale skin, “I love that I get to sit in on these rehearsals, I love it so much.”

He lets your hand drop from his and he stands up, stretching in the process, “I love it to hun,” He shakes out his muscles, a smile creeping its way onto his face as he leans forward to whisper, “I love that I get to watch you watch me. Something about it is just, too hot.”

Your eyes dart around the room as Ashton leans down to place the softest of soft kisses on your neck, his hot breath dancing along your skin as you feel your skin prickle with delight.

You’ve only done it once before, having sex in the rehearsal space that is, but that was also long after everyone had left. Ash had wanted to continue drumming for a little longer and after goodbyes had been said you had felt your body moving without even thinking and before you knew it you were in his lap, jeans off, underwear pushed to the side and riding him hard on the drum stool.

You hadn’t even noticed your own blush creep onto your cheeks until you feel Ashton’s heavy hands on your hips and a light laugh against your skin, “What were you just thinking about?”

You bite your lip and lightly push him away, “Calm down boy,” You cross your arms, a sly smile now consuming your face, “Everyone is still here, don’t get any ideas.”

“I didn’t have any ideas until you said that,” He copies your stance, arms crossed, “Why would I even think such a thing? You have me all wrong little one.” He sticks his tongue out and you shake your head in exasperation. This man will be the death of you.

“Hey Ash! Can you help me move some of this shit Michael left lying here?” You both look to Luke’s voice as he points to the instruments and bags left on the floor next to one of the couches. You giggle as Ashton walks over and lightly smacks Michael’s arm, his mock hurt look making you almost double over.

You leave the boys to grumble and argue with each other as you pick up your stuff to take out to the car, seeing as you and Ash will be leaving soon anyway. You know your way around this space quite well by now and as you weave through the back hallway you suddenly hear footsteps steadily running up behind you. With a quick turn you see your boyfriend jogging to meet you with a wide grin plastered on his face.

“Where are you going little one?”

With an overdramatic eye roll at his favourite pet name for you, you hold up your backpack and keys, “Just taking things out to the car, am I not allowed to do that now am I?” A poke of your tongue follows to emphasise your joking tone.

You wait for a moment for his rebuttal, ready to return fire in an instant, the banter between you two has always been one of the reasons you fell for him. But nothing comes, only the quick strong arms that circle your waist and his lips capturing yours in a deep kiss.

He pulls back just as quickly as he had leapt forward, “Say nothing more.” He whispers, one hand sliding down from your back to your ass, squeezing the denim clad skin, “Understood?”

You nod eagerly, all right and wrong completely going out the window as his eyes look round quickly for any oncoming person who may incidentally catch you two in the act. He moves forward to open one of the many doors along the hallway and upon entering you realise you just walked in what seems to be an extra meeting room, desk and chairs scattered about.

You drop your backpack at the door and with a quick double check that the lock is in place Ashton brings you back into his space, kissing you with as much love and lust as he can muster. You feel yourself getting pushed back and you let yourself be steered towards the desk, lips never leaving each others once.

You can feel all of him against you getting harder by the second, his hands reaching under your shirt to gently squeeze at your breasts, his fingers finding their way to your nipples, pinching lightly. When he leans down to kiss your neck, you remind yourself of the rules and make sure to bite your tongue. As you two continue to kiss, you start to feel your underwear dampen as his hands unbutton your jeans, pushing your hips forward to tell him to stop teasing.

“I’ll stop teasing the day you stop undressing me with your eyes,” His hand creeps under your jeans and into your underwear, “It’s the drumming isn’t it? It turns you on so much doesn’t it?”

You nod eagerly as he wastes no time in rubbing slow circles on your clit, the kind that rile you up just enough to make you breathless and wanting more. You are aware of the fact that the other guys will be wondering where you are, or if you’ve already left and the last thing you want is to exit the room and run into the other guys shocked and smirking faces.

Ashton pulls his hand out of your jeans and without warning flips you around, your back now squarely to his chest. You then automatically lean forward and place your palms on the table, your ass pushing back into his crotch, hinting faintly at a need for touch.

“Shit babe,” You hear him whisper above you, his hands quickly pulling down your jeans and underwear in one go, “I’m not going to last long.”

Ashton unbuttons his own jeans and you listen as he makes a quiet hissing sound, assuming he’s stroking himself and the thought of anticipation makes you press yourself against the cold desk, your nipples hardening at the feel.

Your eyes close involuntarily as you feel him shuffle forward and slowly stroke his cock between your legs, coating himself in your arousal and with one quick and precise thrust he’s completely inside of you, it takes everything in you to not moan out into the empty room, just loving the feeling of being oh so full with him.

“Arch your back baby.” He groans, both hands gripping your hips and as soon as you comply with his request he starts to thrust quickly, your palms squeaking against the table top as you jolt back and forward. One of his hands sneaks up your back to forcefully grab onto the hair on your scalp, jerking you back as your mouth drops open with quiet ecstasy.

Usually when you’re in this position you can’t help but almost scream, the feeling of being dominated and purely taking advantage of makes you wet like nothing else. But having the three guys in the room over makes you force it down with only your laboured breath filling the room. The thought of getting caught and the luxurious feeling of your hair being pulled brings your orgasm closer than you expected and you ride it out willingly, Ashton still going hard behind you.

“Babe, I’m going to pull out and you come and kneel on the floor quickly kay?” He grunts out, his hand where it had been forcefully on your scalp mirrors his other and he fucks you as rough as he can manage, the overstimulation making your legs tremble. Only a moment passes and he’s pulling out of you with a small grunt and as quick as you can you twist and kneel, taking him into your mouth with ease.

You close your eyes as you feel him cum into your mouth, the pulsating feeling against your tongue making you dizzy. His hand finds the back of your head and pushes down lightly while you struggle to breath heavily through your nose.

“God that never gets old,” He breathes out suddenly, looking down on you with half lidded eyes as you clean him up as good as you can, “The best view in the house.”

With his softening cock still in your mouth you manage to give him the finger, eliciting a laugh from your boyfriend. You pull off with a hard suck, loving the way it makes him groan from his own overstimulation and with a quick wipe of your mouth and a stumble to stand, you both fix each others underwear and pants, both giggling as the orgasm high wears off.

“Well done you.” He whispers and leans forward for a small kiss, pulling back and frowning when you don’t respond. With raised eyebrows you wait for him to realise and when he does he smiles, verbally letting you know you’re welcome to speak now, with a whisper of good girl resting on your skin.

With both of you fully clothed and looking slightly worse for wear you wait as Ashton unlocks the door and with your backpack in hand you both sneak out into the hallway, waiting to see if you can hear any voices from the other room.

The silence makes you nervously laugh as you realise all three men have probably left and in time walked right past the door where you were just being railed against the desk. With that both of you head out to the car, stopping so that Ashton can give you a sweet forehead kiss, a usual way he likes to end your sessions together.

Once you’re both in the car, you sit back in elation, letting the rumble of the car lull you into a relaxed state and with Ashton’s hand holding yours tightly, you smile and let your eyes close.

#ashton irwin #5 seconds of summer #5sos writing #ashton irwin oneshot #5sos fluff #5sos smut #5sos oneshot #5sos fanfiction #my writing #ashton irwin smut #ashton irwin writing #5sos

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ceruleanchillin · 5 years ago

Text

Sandalwood (Bakugou x Reader)

A/N: I haven’t gotten super far into MHA, so I’m still learning the characters. I’m also reading the manga. I haven’t officially seen Dabi or Toga’s characters yet, so I’m going off what I’ve read in other fics and a little careful wiki browsing.

I also posted a chapter breaking down the AU on AO3, I’ll probably post it here later.

AO3

The water ran so hot, it began to fog up the small room and disperse the smell of sandalwood throughout it. You eagerly grabbed your loofah, and began scrubbing yourself sudsy. Every pass at your skin, and you felt your humanity being restored. Over your neck, down your arms, across your ribs, everywhere you touched turned to a patch of saccharine velvet.

You hummed, something more akin to a moan actually, and did another full pass just to feel the scalding warmth again. Eyes closed, and toes curled in your shower slippers, your relaxed mind pondered if you had enough time to really style your hair. Afterall, what girl didn’t enjoy a comforting bath ritual?

“Now serving number 1!”

Of course, other’s pampered bathing rituals probably didn’t take place in a supermarket bathroom near dawn.

The bakery section’s automated ticket taker had cut through your hazy thoughts like a knife, and you nearly dropped your loofah. If they were already beginning to receive more customers you didn’t have the bathroom to yourself much longer.

You scrambled to cleanse yourself of all suds, and drained the sink, hoping that would begin to reverse the fogginess.

Shoving all your toiletries into your oversized hobo bag, you ducked into a stall, and began to shove yourself into freshly washed

clothing.

God bless 24/7 laundry mats. Great for junk food dinners, plastic chair naps, and soft, detergent scented kisses with Bakugou at 4 am.

You were pretty sure your sweatshirt was on backwards, and your hair was still sloppily piled on top of your head, waiting to be deconstructed, but you didn’t care to fix either. You’d wasted your safe time, and didn’t want to risk being walked in on. One report by a disgusted customer, and you could kiss your current safe spot goodbye.

You ducked out into the tiny hallway of the restroom area, and smoothed your sweatshirt over your leggings, trying to appear less frantic and out of place.

‘Another successful bath day.’ you smiled, slipping your bag over your head. ‘I’m getting the hang of this.’

You checked the minimal amount of cash you had left, and figured it’d be enough for two muffins and maybe a shared coffee. You had earned it, and you knew your boyfriend would be happy to hear about your appetite balancing out.

Following the warm scents to the bakery section, you remained conscious of the fact that Bakugou would want what was left for gas, and picked with that in mind first.

The feeling of doing something so wholesome, so domestic, as picking up breakfast for your partner hit your person the same way indulging yourself in the bathroom had.

“Eww.” a cruel whisper-laugh made you instinctively turn to look behind you, and regret washed over you almost instantaneously.

Two girls your age stood behind you, eyes trained on your feet. You knew why immediately, but looked down anyways for confirmation you’d forgotten to trade your shower shoes for your slip ons.

‘They can’t know that I..’ you didn’t even finish your thought. Dirty from use as protection from unknown floors, they served their purpose, but betrayed you all the same.

‘Should I change them?’ you wondered, but could only imagine what looks that’d garner, no matter how discreet you could be.

You met their cold eyes, and couldn’t help but think they looked like porcelain dolls.

Three dolls stood at an impasse. Two, very expensive and impossibly perfect, that’d you display for envy. One, lovingly stitched, but you’d forget her in your toy chest.

You quickly turned to face front as your ticket was called and got your purchases. Hurt coursed through you, its white heat branding your insides, and undoing every good thought and feeling it touched.

Retrieving your purchases, and stuffing them into your bag, you headed for the entrance. It wouldn’t be long before Bakugou came to pick you up.

‘He wouldn’t have put up with that’ you thought sourly, frustrated with yourself once again for not possessing the bottomless well of anger your boyfriend pulled his strength from.

You may scold him about it, but you couldn’t deny that at times, it was an asset. However, that just wasn’t your person. You didn’t want to hurt, or be hurt for that matter.

You fought off your tears successfully, but at the cost of stinging sinuses and a minor headache. Wincing as natural light conquered artificial, you stepped out onto the pavement. The parking lot was coming to life compared to when Bakugou dropped you off, and you plopped on the curb to quickly swap out your shoes.

“Cute bag!” a cheery voice chirped, and you noticed a girl next to you.

Had she been there the whole time? You didn’t see how you could’ve missed her, but you had been upset. Blonde spacebuns, dark purple fishnets, and...jesus was she that cold? A heavy red that stretched from cheek to cheek.

You looked at her, thought her eyes looked a little crazed, and then instantly felt bad. Had you not just been shamed based on appearances?

“Thanks.” you responded shyly, trying to straighten your hair. “Thrifted it.”

“Nice!” she screeched, uncaring of the hour. “My stupid friends never wanna go to thriftstores.”

You winced at the volume, but still found her amusing. “You’ve gotta go to Moon Over Mona’s , she’s got the best stuff.”

The girl mouthed the store’s title and rolled her eyes up as if burning it into her brain, before she widened her grin and turned her glazed over eyes back to you. “Noted! I’m Himiko.”

“(Y/N).” you smiled gently

“Oh wow, me too.” she patted your bag softly, as if it were a child, or perhaps a cat.

You tilted your head in question at her odd statement.

“Homeless silly, there’s no hiding things from me.” she rolled her eyes to emphasise the ‘duh’ in her tone. “I mean, I couch hop sometimes, but yeah…..”

You cringed and looked out over the parking lot. You didn’t like to use that word, it made your circumstances seem so ugly, and sounded like something your parents would say to shame you back into their home. But wasn’t that what you, and mostly all of your friends, were?

“It’s not a sweeeear word.” Himiko nudged your knee with her own. “It’s whatever to be free right?”

“That is a...perk I guess.” you chuckled, your inclination towards happier thoughts easily being indulged by talking with the girl.

“Exactly!” she slapped your arm, neon green nails standing out in stark contrast to her threadbare black hoodie.

“Sooooooo listen,” she pressed her pointer fingers together, blush intensifying. “Can I hold a dollar or two? My friend is picking me up here soon, and he’s a super stingy bitch. I want to eat something today.”

She dramatically flopped on the concrete behind her, hands rubbing her thin stomach.

You chewed your lip. Bakugou hated when you were ( a free handed sucker ) too generous. You really should save that remaining 10 dollars to give him for gas.

Himiko popped up onto her knees and gave you puppy eyes. Before long, she began imitating a dog altogether. She panted and lolled her tongue until you were laughing at the display and the sheer ridiculousness of it.

“Ok, ok. “ you laughed, reaching into your bag for your wallet. Neon green nails appeared in your view before they seized the entirety of the wad of bills from your wallet.

The girl bolted the moment her fist clenched around the cash.

“Hey!” you screamed, chest exploding with anxiety, as you took off after her.

One of your slip ons came off, and your bag’s contents took turns beating into your sides every time it came back against your side.

The girl had bolted across the parking lot, and she was faster than you by far. A pickup truck on the far end of the parking lot roared to life, and she’d hopped in by the time you caught up.

“I really do love your bag!” Himiko screamed out of the window as it peeled out of the parking lot.

You dropped to your knees, frantically trying to figure out what just happened.

‘You got robbed you idiot.’ anxiety had wrapped its vice grip around you, and now your thoughts sounded like a drill sergeant with a hard on for you. Had she been planning that all along, or had she’d seen something in you once you started talking? Had she been watching you since you’d gotten dropped off? Your mind raced with the hows and whys, until you thought of your boyfriend.

Once you realized how angry and disappointed Bakugou was going to be, the tears you’d tried to ward off came spilling forth. He was always breaking his back and risking his freedom for what little money you two held between you, and you’d stupidly gone and gotten it stolen. How many times had he’d told you that this wasn’t the first day of kindergarten? How many times had he warned you about befriending strangers?

He was going to finally realize you were more of a burden than a compliment and drop your sorry ass. Your most feared thought only made the tears come harder, and you clutched your bag to yourself pathetically to ground yourself in the swirl of panic.

People warily watched you, taking in your sad appearance. The feeling of their eyes giving you the same looks as those girls was almost too much to bear. Worry, but more so disgust, for the teary eyed girl with one shoe and messy hair. The girl with her life in her bag, crying over money they’d likely spend in their first few minutes of shopping.

“What’s wrong with you goddamned animals!? You see a girl crying in the street and you stare? Braindead, mouth breathing-” the rest of the swear laden rant was lost to you as you leaned into the familiar strength that yanked you from the ground.

“Katsuki.” you murmured appreciatively as he slipped your missing shoe on your barefoot.

“Come on baby.” you knew he was burning with questions, and they would go stalled, not forgotten, as he wanted you away from the now sufficiently shamed onlookers.

The smell of caramel surrounded you, and the morning’s chill began to dissipate in light of the car’s heat. Home.

By the time you were settled in the mustang’s passenger seat, your tears had slowed, but you were still in the trenches of dread.

“Who the hell hurt you?” Bakugou slammed his door, but made no moves to leave the area. You knew he wouldn’t until he got answers.

“What did they do baby? Give me a description of em’. Did you catch a name?”

Your cheeks glistened in the rising sunlight, and for a moment he was struck by how beautiful you were, but that only served to make him madder. He gripped the battered steering wheel, open..close..open...close, so he could try and ease the tremors in his hands. All he could picture was punching some faceless guy’s face into paste on a pavement, and...why the hell weren’t you talking?!

“(Y/N)!”

“It was me!” you cried. “I-”

“What the hell are you talking about?” his scowl scrunched into confusion, before it returned to its previous state. “Don’t you dare start that blaming yourself shit. If somebody hurt you-”

“I tried to give this g-girl two dollars, and she snatched all I had and ran. I think she planned it, there was a p-p-pickup truck. ” you hiccuped, hating every second you had to spend retelling the encounter.

Bakugou stared at you, eyes wide and unbelieving for a moment, and you wished your seat would swallow you whole. It could spit you out anywhere so long as it wasn’t there.

“You what?” he growled lowly.

“Katsuki I-I swear I’m sorry.” the hiccups continued. “I’ll make it back-”

“Dammit (Y/N)!” he slammed his hands on the steering wheel, and another scuff joined the rest. “How many times have I told you?!”

“I know.” you sobbed. “I just...she was so nice-”

“Manners of the fucking year robbing you and all!”

Unable to meet his heated crimson gaze and you leaned against the window. The chill outside pressed against the glass, begging to compete with the heat being generated inside of the car. You pressed your warm face further into its chill, trying to ignore the charged energy emanating from the seat next to you. He must’ve really been pissed not to scold you about doing that to his car baby.

“I’m sorry Katsuki..I just felt like shit and wanted to help somebody.” your words were muffled due to half your mouth being mashed into the glass, but he didn’t ask you to repeat yourself.

He didn’t say anything until a few minutes had passed, and it was you who had to ask him to repeat himself.

“I said...I said I’m getting you a bus ticket home.”

He’d done it. He’d voiced the thing you’d wanted to hear least. You’d rather him yell for hours than talk like this.

“Katsuki...” you peeled yourself from the window and turned to face him. “No!”

“ Yes .” he turned his gaze to you, the red roiling with anger still, but sharing its space with sadness now. “It’s selfish of me to keep you out here, you don’t belong on the streets.”

“I belong wherever you are.” you implored, turning your whole body towards him.

You didn’t like the way he was talking at all. He would sometimes say something about sending you back to your parents, until you’d remind him you were grown and shut him up with a kiss. This felt more final however, and you couldn’t stand it.

“You were crying in the street over 10 damn dollars (Y/N). I’m supposed to take care of you!” Bakugou’s entire being was threaded together by his pride and his word. The whole situation was killing him from one end to the other. His mind was relieved you hadn’t been attacked, screaming at him to find the girl and whoever else was involved, and demanding he scrounge together bus fair and get you the fuck away from him.

“You do!” tears bloomed in your eyes again, this time for entirely different reasons. “ Baby , you do.”

You scrambled into his lap, ignoring your inner thighs getting battered by the console in your haste to surround your man. Bakugou didn’t fight your intrusion, but he wouldn’t meet your gaze again either.

Slim fingers threaded through his wild, ash blond spikes, tugging until he was forced to look you in the eye.

“I’m not going anywhere. You can’t make me leave, I won’ t .” you thumbed his cheekbones. “Tell me you want me gone.”

He didn’t and you both knew he wouldn’t say that, not like that. A frustrated sigh fled his lips as he flexed his fingers. Of course he didn’t want you gone, he barely wanted to leave you alone to take a piss most days.

The fingers of one hand danced across your back gently, before firmly bringing you closer to him. His other hand grasped your chin and so he could press his lips to yours in a kiss. It was angry, but you wanted it all the same, understanding the anger wasn’t for you. You got what you wanted, which was physical comfort and putting to bed any silly ideas of separation.

“I don’t want to see you like that again.” he murmured against your lips. “You deserve better than that. I need to give you better than that.”

“ I need to be with you, that’s what I deserve.” You cupped his cheeks initiating another kiss.

“Yeah, yeah.” he kissed a path over your face, stopping when he reached your temple. “You’re a dumbass for staying, and I’m a dumbass for letting you.”

End Note: This once happened for real, sort of. A girl was having a full on cry fit on the floor of Walmart’s entrance and nobody helped until my mom stepped in and asked what she could do for her. So yeah..if you were wondering why no one helped the reader, I guess sometimes people don’t.

#reader insert #bakugou x reader #BNHA #MHA #Au #mha au #bakugou katsuki

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thallencambricaltran · 6 years ago

Text

The Golden Hour

September Gabriel Prompts

Title: The Golden Hour

Pairing: Sam/Gabriel

Rating: Teen

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Warnings/Tags:

Words: 2039

Prompts Used:

-Statement: The rain fell around him, the water cold but gentle in its cascade down his face, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across

-Dialogue: “Are you going to come in, or just be creepy in my doorway?”

Sneak peek: It was raining in soft droves, winter cold rain mixed with still warm summer air and whirled together by a fall breeze. The sun was just approaching the horizon, sinking down to be embraced by the rolling plains of Kansas and seeming to seep the world below it with the colors of old stained glass. The gold and silver lined bellies and rain filled clouds arched through the sky, casting shadows and blocks of light across the ground in a mosaic of earthy hues.

Gabriel, the trickster and the messenger, flew to his usual landing place just outside the bunker.

Authors Note: The first 3 pages wrote themselves, the last few took me until now to finish. This is for the Gabriel Monthly Challenge, and you can find that here! (http://gabriel-monthly-challenge.tumblr.com/) This is just a simple, cute bit of Sabriel fluff and snuggles because we all need more of that good stuff. Shout out to my lovely beta, @cloversage61, for fixing my spelling and grammar errors (and reminding me to finish writing this.)

@gabriel-monthly-challenge @archangelgabriellives @archangelsanonymous@revwinchester @ttttrickster @archangel-with-a-shotgun @warlockwriterr

The Golden Hour

It was raining in soft droves, winter cold rain mixed with still warm summer air and whirled together by a fall breeze. The sun was just approaching the horizon, sinking down to be embraced by the rolling plains of Kansas and seeming to seep the world below it with the colors of old stained glass. The gold and silver lined bellies and rain filled clouds arched through the sky, casting shadows and blocks of light across the ground in a mosaic of earthy hues.

Gabriel, the trickster and the messenger, flew to his usual landing place just outside the bunker. It was much simpler to teleport out here and simply walk inside than have to wrangle with the warding surrounding the building, even for him. It was a simple huddle of trees, providing some shielding from the view of unwanted eyes, but almost none from the weather.

The rain fell around him, the water cold but gentle in it’s cascade down his face, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across. By the sun, he loved this weather. It was just perfect for roasting marshmallows, sipping thick mugs of cocoa piled with freshly whipped cream, munching on caramel apples, and...

With a twitch, Gabriel shook himself out of his daydreams, he’d have enough time for that later, but right now, he had an appointment to keep. He popped a lolly into existence and stuffed it into his mouth, candy apple flavored of course, no need to suffer needlessly, and began his trudge up to one of the lesser used of the bunker doors. Sam had altered the bunkers warding enough to let him, but Gabriel himself preferred to use one of the entrances in which he was less likely to run into, you guessed it, Dean. The man still held the tiniest of grudges against him, although he couldn’t imagine why. (Definitely not for killing him multiple times, faking his own death twice and tormenting his brother on occasion.) He himself quite liked Dean, even if he was emotionally stunted, caffeine addicted, and a bit trigger-happy, he was also very entertaining. By this point, Gabe had reached the bunker’s door and shifted inside, his eyes adjusting instantly to the dimmer lighting inside. Shifting his lollipop back into a pocket dimension for later, he quietly closed the door behind him and gave prerequisite glance around him for any others. He knew of course already that none was around, his angelic senses told him the locations of all 3 of the people currently residing in the bunker. And if two of those figures were currently a little closer together than they strictly needed to be, he wasn't going to say anything about it. Still, he kept quiet as he made his way to his predetermined destination. It wasn’t as if he really needed to be quiet, it was more out of principle, and like, tradition. If he was going to be creeping around, he was going to be doing it well, dammit. Even if he didn’t have anyone to hide from aside from Dean, who hardly counted. By the same way he knew the locations of the others in the bunker, Cas also could sense other living beings. His grace, as an archangel was considerably larger than a mere seraphs, especially since he wasn’t currently masking his presence.

He knows that his brother is aware of his presence in the bunker, now and every time in the past that he has come. And his brother knows that he knows. And he knows that his brother knows he knows. And that was a lot less complicated than it sounded.

Anyways. He followed the now familiar pathway to a now familiar room, footsteps softening instinctively as the sound of soft breathing fell upon his ears. The whispering of a delicate page being turned, the deep thud of a heart beating in a broad chest, red blood rushing through veins and the impossibly gentle sound of lashes brushing against silken cheeks in a soft blink. Gabriel smiled gently as he listened to the sounds that were Sam, that were just as a part of him as the deep timber of his voice, his long legs and powerful thighs, the waves to his hair, the stubble that crept up on his cheeks when he hadn’t shaven in a few days. In Gabriel's opinion, everything about that stupid moose-man was perfect.

Gabriel lingered in Sam’s bedroom doorway. The positively picturesque moment brought him to pause and gaze upon the scene before him. The old lamps of the bunker, (and Dad, in this moment he sure loved those lamps a lot) the light filtered through in strong amber hues, washing the room in yellows and high contrasts, much as the sinking sun had outside. The golden light of the lamps hit the caramel highlights in Sam’s hair perfectly. Sinking into each wave upon his scalp and clinging to each tendril that fell to caress his face and shoulders. The rays brushed across his face, highlighting cheekbones, and emphasising the cut of his jaw and the shape of his throat. Finally, wonderfully, impeccably, the light touched his mouth in the gentlest of kisses, (as Gabriel wished to be doing now) and gently, so gently, outlined the perfect curve of his lower lip.

“Are you going to come in, or are you just going to be creepy in my doorway?” Gabriel glanced up from Sam’s lips to meet his smiling gaze, and answered in a smile of his own.

“I’d love to come in if I was so invited.” Gabriel teased, still not crossing the doorway, but playfully wiggling fingers in Sam’s direction.

“You’re always invited, you dork, now get over here.” Sam grinned boldy at the archangel and gestured to the spot on the bed next to him, having already marked his place in his book and set it aside.

Gleefully, Gabriel scampered over to Sam and jumped up next to him on the bed, planting a kiss on his lips as he did so and wrapping his arms around the taller man’s shoulders. His hair is pulled back into a loose bun, (which, in Gabriel’s opinion, was completely hot) and for once he’s not wearing one of his usual flannels and is simply in a plain green t shirt. Pausing his kiss to admire the man before him, he admires the almost scandalous lack of clothing( a single t-shirt and jeans for this man was basically naked), and the way the green hue of his shirt brought out the green in his hazel eyes and highlighted their warmth.

“See something you like?” Sam said teasingly. As Gabriel belatedly realized that he’d been staring soppily at Sam for a number of minutes now. Snapping back into the present, Gabriel wrapped both arms around Sam’s waist to pull him into a tight hug.

“Always, Sam-a-lam.” He said with his best wink and a smirk, pulling a soft laugh from the other man. Gabriel bounced back to better be able to look up at his giant moose.

“So Sammy! What movie are we gonna be watching tonight?” Gabriel asked, clasping his hands together and beaming up at him. In all honesty, he’d seen a number of the movies Sam had shown him before, but, seeing it with Sam at his side gave him new eyes and new appreciation for each one. Although sometimes he thought he enjoyed watching Sam watching the movie more than he actually enjoyed watching the films.

“And we get candy this time!” Gabriel reminded the taller man, who simply rolled his eyes at his antics.

“Yes, but, please go easy on the stuff, for my sake Gabe.” Sam huffed playfully.

“Yeah, yeah. I get it, and don’t worry, I’ll make sure there’s like, carrots and raisins and stuff for ya.” Gabe said, knocking his should with Sam’s. Or least tried to, it was more like knocking his shoulder with Sam’s hip, but like, whatever.

“Besides,” Gabriel reminded him, “You get to pick the movie!”

Sam just snorted at that. “I pick the movie every time, weirdo, you hardly know any of their names.”

“That’s because I watch TV shows, not movies, Sam, they’re longer!”

“In shorter chunks over a longer period of time, but yeah, I guess they can be longer.” Sam conceded.

Satisfied that he’d won his end of the argument, Gabriel flopped himself down across Sam’s bed, where they usually chilled while watching movies on a TV Gabriel had summoned a few weeks, (or was it months now?) ago. He’d thought the one in Sam’s room was too small, so of course he’d had to make it bigger.

“So what movie are we watching, anyway?” Gabriel asked.

“It’s this really great film,” Sam gushed, “It never really hit a big audience, but man, does it make you think-…” Gabriel let Sam’s voice trail off in his mind as the hunter stretched to curl around him. Dad, he loved this dork.

“Hey Sam.”

“Yeah, Gabriel?”

“Doesn’t one of us actually need to be standing, to like, put the movie in?” He asked.

Groaning, Sam pulled himself back up to insert the disk, and snagging the remote on his way back to Gabriel, who welcomed him back to the bed with open arms.

“Hello, Sam.” He whispered.

“Hi, Gabe,” Sam chuckled, pulling the smaller man in for a soft kiss.

Turning from Sam, Gabriel snapped his fingers, starting the movie without a need for the remote, and skipping straight to the previews.

“They’re one of the best parts, Sam.” Gabriel insisted as he sensed rather than heard or felt, Sam’s intake of breath.

“But the previews are so old!”

“I don’t care Sam! They’re fun to watch, like little mini movies with cliffhanger endings!”

Sam just tugged his angel closer, and huffed a light laugh into his neck.

- - - - -

Gabriel gently ran his fingers through Sam’s hair in just the way he knew the taller man liked. Gently tugging at the scalp before his fingers continued on to slip through the lengthy strands like silk. Even with Sam’s half asleep as he was, Gabriel could feel the contentment rumble through him, a deep mix between a purr and a growl.

Gabriel sighed softly. He had a large hunter curled up halfway in his lap, (or at least as much of the hunter as he could fit in his lap), and he had a movie that he knew was good (he hadn’t told Sam, but this was one he’d watched already), and his belly was blissfully full of sweets and popcorn. He wasn’t sure he could ever be happier. If he had ever been happier, he was hard pressed to remember it. At least at this moment, while sugar and the musk of Sam’s familiar scent addled his brain. Fingers moving in a common pattern, Gabriel selected delicate bunches of hair from Sam’s head, and in the ancient patterns he had learned as Loki, among the Celts and Vikings of old, began an intricate braiding, one that would fit his beautiful moose warrior, and his hair was just so perfect for braiding...

Sam woke up the next morning cocooned around Gabriel. He could feel a certain tension along his scalp that let him know Gabriel had braided his hair. Again. He really only pretended to be mad for appearances at this point, and Gabriel knew it was all a ruse. Sam shifted gently to work his phone out of his back pocket without waking the sleeping archangel, before snapping a quick selfie of the two of them, for memories sake. Gabriel’s long amber lashes fluttered on his cheeks, and Sam idly wondered if he was dreaming before gently planting a kiss on the sleeping man’s hair. He dropped his phone on the side table, he didn’t need it anymore, and moved to loop an arm back around his angel. He didn’t need to go on his morning run, not quite yet.

#sabriel #sambriel #supernatural #fluff

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whatsanalec · 4 years ago

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Weeks 9&10

It’s been hectic and stressful to say the least, and a lot happened.

Firstly, concerning the “ ‘ “ idea: I made a portotype for each version (window and crowd). However, the only one I went forward with was the window one, because I feel like it’s more striking and intriguing as an image and concept, and because the crowd idea (seeing image) - although it took a while to draw - turned out to appear a lot more creepy than I imagined because of the eyes. Although I should have seen that coming, come to think of it.

For the Window prototype (first image) I used leftover painted card from last year for the background. For the end product it needs to be bright colour that communicates the feeling of desire.

For both prototypes, I used a photo of myself for the silhouette (which I had to photoshop because my jaw was still very swollen from getting my wisdom tooth removed at the time). This is my way of putting myself in the work, semi-literally. Since this concept is half-inspired by personal experience, it just makes sense for me.

Having decided to go ahead with the window idea, I set to work to get it done. I used another image for the background figure to avoid the same pixelation issue I had with the prototype.

This piece, initially inspired by the Imagine Dragons lyric, “I’m an apostrophe, I’m just a symbol to remind you that there’s more to see,” put you in the perspective of a person who, despite having someone directly in front of and facing them, decides to look through them and onto who’s behind. That person, however, is visually content without knowing or acknowledging you. And yet, you keep looking.

The top layer being plain white serves the purpose of blending into a white wall and emphasising the idea that you are looking straight through someone who is obviously right in front of you. Behind that, the black layer is to create stark contrast and amplify the white’s cutout, but invite you further into the centre of the piece.

The much more intricate application of the crimson and scarlet colours beneath are to communicate the feeling of desire and interest that you feel towards the figure in the back, who is maticulously detailed in contrast to the silhouette in front. This is to convey the idea that you, who is looking through someone that you see no detain in, look past them and onto someone whose body intrigues you so much more. The piece is sized so that the silhouette is life sized in order to make the concept more real to the viewer.

In other news, remember that floating MDF idea I had? Yeah I did that. This was very unlike anything I’ve done before and was very stressful because I was working on this and ‘ at the same time for over a week.

This started with me stealing (with permission) - bunch of lasercut rectangles from the digital making space, and the idea of “strangers,” which I came up with after a conversation with my friend about my social anxiety. After a slow back and forth with Ronnie about how to suspend them, I painted them all white on both sides and we constructed the... thing.

As I mentioned before, my first thought was to create some kind of crosshatch design - either out of assembled wood or lasercut MDF - and attach it to my studio board so that the pieces could be hung in seemingly random places, because that’s what I wanted. What Ronnie thought of was similar. We screwed a couple long, thin pieces of wood coming off the top of my studio board and I was left to play with it.

We were going to do the same thing with another piece of wood and then attach some pieces across the ones already there, parallel to the wall, but after some experimentation with hanging the MDF I realised that it would be much better if the wood parallel to the wall was completely movable. That way, I could move and swap them about freely to get what I want without the hassle of untying the thread and tying it back on in a different spot. And if I wanted to change the position of a single MDF piece, I could shimmy it over thanks to the slack on the knots, or I could loop the thread around the wood to make the MDF higher. Foolproof.

But this contraption isn’t the whole thing. To communicate the aforementioned idea of anxiety, I had the idea of projecting a video of an eye looking around restlessly, with audio of panicked breathing. Luckily, I have three things that made this possible on short notice: a phone capable of filming in 4K, a clip-on macro lens for said phone, and a willing friend.

My idea for this video was to make it very eerie and anxiety inducing. So when it came to editing it, I used Davinci Resolve to desaturate the colours and lower the temperature to make it seem cold and absolutely not uplifting. I then took it into Premiere Pro. There, I made an identical video track but reversed it and lowered the opacity to 33% so it looks like two eyes of the danger owner moving independently.

For the audio, I added a recording of my heavy breathing and upped the gain to make it loud but not deafeningly so. I also added a slowed down version of it for a creepy bass layer, and I also added a track of room time but made it louder to amplify the feeling of something being off.

So, I got a projector and a plinth, and it turned out pretty great. Without further ado:

Strangers is an installation with the purpose of portraying my experience with social anxiety and difficulty communicating with proper I don’t know well or aren’t comfortable around.

The projected video aims to induce the feelings of anxiety and panic, which are communicated through many aspects: i.e. the lack of vibrance, overlap of visuals and collection of audio. The use of colour gives anything but a feeling of happiness and makes the viewer feel on edge just by that alone. The overlap of video shows constant rapid movement, and along with the sound of panicked breathing, plus the sounds beneath that, the feeling of being overwhelmed is emphasised so much more.

The MDF pieces are suspended by transparent fishing wire to give the impression that they are floating. They are positioned in a way that appears random and they take up all three axes. These shapes represent uncertainty and/or people, and their positioning gives the idea that there is no escape from threes feelings of anxiety - you’re surrounded by them. They’re everywhere. These objects onstruct the projection and leave holes in it, furthering the relationship between the two elements of the installation and bringing the video forwards into the third dimension.

To see the video, click here: https://youtu.be/tAJWmACRYbY

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Moving Image module

Editing this thing together was an experience but less tedious than I expected. I used Davinci Teeolve for the first time to colour correct and whatnot. It was a slow process because my laptop isn’t great but I got there. I tried to make it look like there was more sun, to give a warm feeling and emphasise the light-heartedness, but some locations are visually overcast so it was kind of difficult to make them seem sunnier while being realistic. In some cases I ended up just being able to boost the colour which will have to suffice.

When it came to making all the cuts in Premiere, I divided a method for including all the locations without the film being a confusing mess: start with 3 locations and cut between them. 3 minutes in, take one out and introduce a new one in the former’s place. Repeat until all locations are introduced. I had to write this down in a way that visually represented it in a simple way my feeble little brain could understand:

This method was derived from Creature Comforts, which did near the same thing. The difference being that they had many more settings to cut between. After I developed the method, it was a matter of singling out the moray interesting parts/monuments with potential for the voiceover, and cutting them together. It came to about 11.5 minutes, which is respectable in my opinion, as long as we can keep the energy up during recording.

Speaking of which, I think the recording went well. We started with the traffic/weather track which was going well, considering we hadn’t had any practice, until Nathan forgot we weren’t doing voices yet. He realised after that track and we gained confidence through recording the others.

Being one take and in time with the video track, the audio was easy to implement. At first I lowered the sfx and ambiance tracks to give the speech one more prominence, but Nathan advised I boost all of them. This was alright, just meant I had to adjust the volume of some parts. Also, I only ended up using the direction track once, where the speech track peaked badly. If we did this again, I’d definitely speak more clearly during recording and be more cautious about packing the mic. But of course we couldn’t do a second take, because that would go against the whole point of doing a single take.

And that’s it done. I definitely believe we could have achieved something much more impressive if we went with my initial idea or something similar. But nevertheless, this was a fun process, especially the recording. At least I learned new software and hot more experience with editing. Link to the film: https://youtu.be/BoH4mZsXRac

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Now all that’s left is assessment. Please have mercy.

#apostrophe #strangers

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isabelles-animation-blog · 4 years ago

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The use of Colour

Colour in film was created not that long ago, with the first feature film credited with this being The Wizard of Oz. Today it is used less as a spectacle and more as a method in order to guide the audience through the narrative. Colour can be used in many different ways to produce the desired effects, such as using colour contrasts to highlight important parts in a scene so that the audience remembers it, or to alter the mood of the entire scene such as tinting the entire frame red to indicate romance or anger, and finally it can also be used to lead your eye through a scene this can be done by using contrast, or it can be done by using harmonious colours so it’s more easy on the eye.

The use of colour in Gone Girl is quite unique, the film mostly relies on natural lighting and colouring, but there are some scenes in the film where there is a slight blue undertone, which makes the film feel very cold and unfeeling. A lot of these scenes with blue undertones are liked to either Amy herself or her disappearance, which is a useful tool to help develop her character more and show her ‘true colours’ as such.

Another scene in the film which uses colour in a very striking way is that of the murder of Desi Collings. Instead of trying to lead your eye the director has used colour in a way that produces more of a shock factor. The scene is naturally lit with the exception of a few lamps used for set dressing, so when he is murdered there is suddenly just this large amount of red (blood) which is framed in a way that the colour of it overtakes that of the lighting as the director has placed a very special focus on this aspect of the scene. This scene is actually quite disturbing because it is set up and acted in a certain way that makes it very precise but also almost ‘normal’ in a way. This might seem like an odd concept but in actuality it is much more simple, in films there is usually some kind of ceremony surrounding the murder of a person, like the villain has angered the hero, or some pressing need in the narrative which makes the murder the only solution, whereas with Amy she performs this murder in a very clean way and without any emotion behind it. This ties back to the blood and how the director has emphasised this because it highlights the brutality of it, we see Amy at the start as a normal housewife and now we are seeing her covered in blood, most of which she intentionally got on herself which helps to demonstrate to the audience just how twisted she is.

Please note that video is age restricted due to the graphic and disturbing nature of the scene.

If you feel that this scene might be upsetting for you please have caution if you choose to watch.

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Compared to Gone Girl the colours in Mother! are a lot more simple, at least in my opinion to understand. The only real dramatic and sudden change of colour is when mother and everyone else is being consumed by flames in the house, the film like Gone Girl mostly relies on natural lighting and colouring which initially gives it a warm and calm feeling, but when we see the flames at the end when the narrative of the film has become very dark it’s really startling because the colour contrast of it is so great, and in a way it sears itself into your mind and almost wipes the slate clean in a way, which actually goes well with the narrative, because at the end we actually find out that the cycle is set to continue infinitely.

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Overall when looking at the use of colour in these two films it is clear to see that while it is mostly used as a type of set dressing in a way, the directors have used it at very specific moments in order to produce this very striking effect, as well as highlight certain aspects that we as viewers need to pay attention to. I feel like these points explored here would be interesting to feature in my essay because I found it quite intriguing how each director has manipulated this to their advantage, as well as setting up the ending and manipulating the narrative.

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maryhanna · 4 years ago

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VISUAL EXERCISE 1A FILM ANALYSIS REQUIEM FOR A DREAM

In this scene from Requiem for a Dream we see the two subjects physical and emotional intimacy displayed with a surreal eye. Straight away we can identify the split screen, with Harry on the left and Marion on the right. The image is still and focuses on their faces with a close up shot, the split shot brings their faces closer together emphasising their connection as two individuals. As the scene progresses the shots change and intertwine as we move with the subject’s hands as they touch each other. Each side of the screen gives us a to and fro feeling, showing their movements as a sort of ‘give and take’ between the two as the dialogue continues and bounces.

It’s somewhat difficult finding the key light in this scene as it seems as the shots change there is some continuity problems, however this may allude to their dream like drugged up state that they are in. Their world on drugs is fragmented much like this scene, with everything disconnected and numb however in all this they feel one another and are close in their reality. The background is empty and black therefor giving the audience a clear outline of the subjects as light only hits them. Again, possibly alluding to the aloneness of these characters but also creating a relaxed image on the audiences’ eye.

The colour palette in this scene is warm and with skin colour tones throughout, creating an intimate and relaxed atmosphere. The overall shot is quite saturated yet subtle, making it a very visually pleasing shot and contrasts greatly with the rest of the film. The film in general uses an extremely cold blue and green hue over most of the shots as well as them being sharp and over exposed, an overall unhappy and uncomfortable experience. But here in this scene we have the subjects in their happiest place, and we can tell that through colour, as well as sound.

The soundtrack and sound editing in this film is incredible and highlights perfectly the highs and lows of drug addiction and human relationships. In the scene I chose the music tells the audience so much. With most of the soundtrack we hear this string bass mantra, which is featured in this scene however we also hear snippets of EDM music. This especially alludes to the subject’s naivety and youth in regard to their drug use. We hear no diegetic sound therefore the dialogue and the soundtrack stand out.

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gilles-blaise-westminster · 5 years ago

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Photography in London - Week 9

- Activities

ACTIVITY 1

Before cropping:

Bas Princen, Cooling Plant (Dubai) (2010)

Look carefully at the whole photo – notice everything that is depicted in it and how these different elements work together to create a narrative. What is the photograph of?

This photo shows a cooling plant in Dubai, with a bunch of workers in front of it. It plays on the very graphic lines of the cooling plant and the buildings in the background against the fluidity of the small mounts of dirt and dust and the workers.

I imagine that the people on the photo are either working in the building, or on a construction site that is not on the picture, maybe behind the photographer. I believe they are workers as they were the customary blue overalls that the profession usually wears. They appear to be on a break, maybe on their lunch break (which could be confirmed by their pose, the overall natural lighting and the tints of the sky).

What is the photograph about?

This photograph was created for an exhibition called “Cinq Villes”, for Rotterdam’s fourth international architecture biennale.

As mentioned above, the middle and background play off of the foreground, which gives off some very different vibes. The middle and background show graphic lines, modernity, geometry, solid colours, an urban environment. The foreground is dusty, and looks a lot like a desert. I see this high contrast between these two parts of the photograph as a critic of society, maybe of how the rich are always in the background whilst the poorer workers work on their comfort.

After cropping:

Bas Princen, Cooling Plant (Dubai) (2010)

What is the photograph of?

I decided to go for a very intense crop to change the whole mood of that picture, which I think I managed pretty well. This “new” photograph shows a man, all alone, sitting on the small part of nature that still is, contemplating a huge metal dark wall.

What is the photograph about?

In this photograph, the emphasis is really put on the man. He is the pop of colour in the middle of the image. It is really the first think the viewer should see. His pose feels very lonely, as if he was the last one on a devastated planet.

I really like how the black background shows a huge contrast with the foreground, in maybe all the ways possible: it is very dark (against the lightness of the dust and the blue), it is black (against the light beige and blue), it has very graphic lines, typical of metal sheets (against the fluidity of the nature in the foreground). It also takes the biggest part of the picture whilst still not being the main focus.

ACTIVITY 2

In the first picture with the children eating ice-cream, what is mostly to be noted are how similar they are, as if they were mirrored: the way the eat it, the colour of their tops, their facial expressions. The car in the foreground, the stuffed animal and the lighthouse (far in the background) are interesting as well. I like all the graphic lines in the image.

The second picture is remarkable in terms of colour: the red of the binoculars is reflected in the notebook and in the tail of the plane. The light-blue necklaces are also to be noted. It is hard to really analyse because of how crowded the background is.

I really like the third picture. The perspective is interesting, the contrasting colours are very nice (the more muted colours for the environment and the flashy reds and yellows on his clothes), etc. It’s like the model wears all the colours that his surroundings have. He is also waiting in a room with washing machines, suggesting that his clothes are being washed. It’s as if without the muted environment (the washing machines), the colours could not exist.

The last picture is quite perturbing. I don’t really know what is going on, but I am noting how staged it feels compared to the three pictures that came before. The models are posing, the flag in the background doesn’t feel natural at all. There’s a very clear perspective, as all the straight lines on the ground are pointing toward the upper-right corner of the picture.

Caption 1: “Legend”

This caption draws attention to the clothes, as it is what is written on the model’s t-shirt. This also adds a deeper meaning, as we start wondering about who the model is: is he a legend? Is his life one? Is the photograph one?

Caption 2: “Reflections”

This caption draws attention to the shine of the ground, of the washing machines (metal and glass), of the leather, and to the flash on the plastic sheets on the background wall. The way light reflects on it is very interesting and, when you look at it closely, fascinating. This caption is centred on the lighting.

Caption 3: “Candid Patience”

This caption reflects the model and what he’s doing. He is candidly waiting for his clothes. It is more literal than the two last ones but still not as literal as the one following.

Caption 4: “Young Man Waiting For His Clothes To Be Washed”

This style of caption is very different from the last ones, as it seems quite literal. However, who says that this is what is happening? I like it a lot.

Caption 1: “Industrial Pride”

This caption mainly focuses on the flag in the background and the overall environment. The word Pride today is often associated with the Pride parades, and the pride flag that goes with it. The poses the models have shows the pride, while everything around reflects this industrial point of view.

Caption 2: “Trains”

With this caption, I tried to focus on what’s going on around the picture instead of the picture itself. The clues we get from the composition are the chains, the opening on a huge building behind that white brick hall, there seems to be tracks on the ground. While I don’t know if this really is related to trains, it is what it makes me think of.

Caption 3: “Traffic”

This caption is a play on words. As mentioned above, I imagine this place to be a factory where trains are being built. If you focus on the window that should be open to the outside, we can note that it’s actually been covered in planks, as if the building had actually been abandoned. What the models are doing isn’t specified, but it might be illegal when you see the way the window was blocked out. Traffic then comes into mind, as it works for trains moving and for illegal business.

Caption 4: “Showroom”

This is a caption that should make you consider the environment differently. The lighting feels so fake and too good that it makes me think this might actually not really be a factory but more of a showroom, maybe just a shallow movie set with prompts.

- Deutsche Borse Prize, Photographer’s gallery

Mohamed Bourouissa, Free trade

What is the main message of this artist’s work?

Bourouissa is an artist that mainly wants to criticise colonialism and its effects on society. This reflects a lot with his own background, as he was born in 1978 in Algeria. He photographs about who he is, about people around him (may he know them or not). For example, he treated in one of his series the unemployment problem in Marseille (which is a city known for its big immigrant communities). He also made a series about friendship. All of these concrete examples all would not be if the French had not colonised Northern Africa, so I personally think it is to be considered as a consequence of colonialism.

How is this conveyed? (What techniques is s/he using?)

To get his message across, he uses several media: photography (of course), but also augmented reality, emphasising people being invisible to most. A very important aspect of his photographs are also the model’s insight and participation (which is a thing I personally value a lot). They are an integrant part of how the photograph will come out, and more than by simply being in them.

When one looks at the pictures he produces, the theme is very much about the consequences of colonialism and what came after it. To convey that, he goes for graphic lines, bold colours and strong lighting (may it be natural or artificial).

This is the most striking picture of Bourouissa that we have access on the website. First of all, the subject makes it very clear: it’s police abuse, an unfortunately common sin of our society. The important part of it is the victim, the guy sitting on the ground, as the focus of the image emphasises.

The story this image shows us is very hard and can be seen in its composition. This coloured guy on the ground is getting arrested, but the woman standing to him, on the right part of the frame, is clearly in a position of sadness, as if she had given up in front of so much injustice. It is to be noted that the policeman just next to the sitting guy is black, showing how some will fade in, while some won’t.

The colours are very beautiful. They are probably artificial. Coming from our point of view, a strong warm orangey-red light, and coming from the back, a cold light-yellow light. It shows how the warm side is the “home” side, and that the police are coming from the outside.

These contrasting lights are also reflected in the clothing (and their colours): the two civilians look like they were just taken out of bed, wearing very few and in light colours (grey). The policemen, on the other hand, wear black, combat boots, etc. This contrast is very important, really creating two different worlds, a warm home versus a cold outside.

Anton Kusters, The Blue Skies Project

What is the main message of this artist’s work?

In his series called “The Blue Skies Project”, Kusters wants to represent trauma the best way he can. This is a really heavy theme that is very difficult to represent, as trauma in itself is a very personal thing that is felt differently for each individual.

At the basis of his project lays the story of his grandfather. He nearly escaped deportation in 1943. Kusters though: what if he had been deported? What would he have felt? How would this have been like? Can I find those feelings myself today? Kusters then decided to go to Auschwitz to “investigate”, hoping to find answers, but all he found was the realisation that there were many more camps than Auschwitz: over a thousand, according to him. In order to really get that trauma, all would have to be visited.

How is this conveyed? (What techniques is s/he using?)

To really get that hard feeling, Kusters takes polaroid pictures of the blue sky in each camp. This is heavily symbolic. The polaroid in itself is a media that is very fragile, like the concept of trauma. The images are printed but time can (and probably will) make it disappear, in the same way what we remember of those camps and times is fading away. The subject of each of those polaroid is the blue sky, which is also very symbolic, as it never stays in place, as it is ever-changing. It shows how volatile the image of trauma is.

There are two more aspects to be discussed: the inscription on the polaroid pictures and the presentation overall. On each polaroid, Kusters insisted on blind stamping the number of victims and the coordinates of each camp. This is very contrasting with the principle of the polaroid itself: when blind stamping numbers (or any other thing) into a picture, the picture is marked forever and that information cannot be erased. It’s very interesting: the image of the sky will end up fading away, like our memories, but the number of victims and the exact location will never disappear. It’s like a reminder.

Finally, the presentation is very important. Ruben Samama was asked to compose a 13-year long generative audio piece “which recreates in sound and length the period between 1933 and 1945 when the camps were operational.” This plays a big part on how we can feel the exhibition. In Samama’s words, “It is history being played. […] In single sounds, and one sound being one victim, there is no hierarchy in trauma.” It really is adding one more layer to this already heavy exhibition.

I don’t think there is that much to say about the picture itself, as the work of Kusters is mostly symbolic. It is a simple representation of a blue sky. We can see that it looks typically like a polaroid picture, with a lighter centre and darker areas in the corners. This simplicity creates a real contrast with the heavy theme of the exhibition. We would not think of a blue sky to talk about trauma or genocide.

We get more information with what is underneath than with the image itself. It tells us that 25 people died in that camp. I looked up the coordinates, and they are of a city in the North of Poland (Gdansk), but I couldn’t find the camp associated with it.

The title of the series doesn’t say much: “The Blue Skies Project”. Indeed, that is what the polaroid pictures show, but it doesn’t say much more about the theme of the photographic series as a whole. It is very much needed to gather more information about it to really enjoy it and understand its depths, meaning that the exhibition text is 100% needed.

Mark Neville, Parade

What is the main message of this artist’s work?

With this series, British artist Mark Neville wants to show what life is in the area of Guingamp, in Brittany. He wants to show the real meaning of community and identity through community in this rural area of the North-East of France.

In the case of the little town of Guingamp, the sense of community is enhanced in many ways: the football team, the farming community, the Breton dancers, the baton twirlers, the beauty pageants, etc. It relates a lot to what Brittany really means: a little Britain. There’s an emphasis on the contrast between Brittany and Britain, also pushed forward by the fact the project started when the UK voted out of the EU. Neville thus shows his own sense of community (as he is British) through the mirroring of France.

He photographs animals and shows the complex relationships farmers develop with their cattle, as we all know that the end product is food. Agriculture is a recurring theme of Neville’s photographs. He insists on the importance of sustainability.

How is this conveyed? (What techniques is s/he using?)

There are two different kind of pictures: some look very documentary, unstaged, whilst others show a clear organisation and are staged.

All of his pictures show a person, sometimes accompanied by one or more animals, which helps in translating his point of view.

This picture sits in the more staged category of Neville’s work. It portrays a little girl, probably from a cheerleading team as her pompoms show. Behind her are many dogs, all of the same breed, with a pond. The little girl’s expression is very contrasting to her portrayal: her stare is quite empty, while her clothes are colourful, happy, she has bright blue eyes and blonde hair, but really her expression is almost lacking in a way.

The way the dogs come out behind her is quite weird and I can’t put my finger on how this picture was taken. At first, I thought of a collage, but it seems that there is some wooden installation floating on the pond behind her, which allows them to be almost floating in the air.

On this picture, Neville plays a lot on perspective. The little girl seems to be the point of emergence from where all the dogs come out.

Clare Stand, The Discrete Channel with Noise

What is the main message of this artist’s work?

This series is inspired by Eckhardt’s “Electronic Television” from 1936. She is interested in communication and what makes it possible today, mostly the modern means of communication and how the interpretation of a conversation can lead to many different outcomes.

How is this conveyed? (What techniques is s/he using?)

Her process to construct her series is quite precise. As she resided in France, she asked her husband (who lived in the UK) to pick images from her own archive and to draw a grid on it, cutting it into a lot of squares. Then, he had to put on each square a number from 1 to 10 that would represent a different tone of grey. When that was done, he was to give her the numbers in order on the phone.

This is one of the image Stand recreated after being on the phone with her husband. It is very interesting. First off, the choice of black and white (or grey) is a strategic choice, put up probably to make Stand and her husband’s work easier, but it is also a nod to her inspiration, Eckhardt’s “Electronic Television” (1936), as everything was in black and white at that time.

This image shows very well the complexities of communication. While we don’t know what the original image is like, some parts of it seem… wrong? The way her husband interpreted some “pixels” to be very light do not translate very well on Stand’s recreation of the image. It is as if they were out of place. We can definitely pick up the overall scene, a man sitting at his desk, maybe using a typewriter or a computer of some sort, but it is hard to know more – which completely validates Stand’s point.

In your view, which artist should win the competition? Why?

Personally, I think the winner should be Bourouissa, the first of the four artist I’ve treated. I comparison with the others, I really enjoy how he doesn’t overcomplicate his message. What he shows is instantly striking, whilst much more reflexion is needed for the others.

I also really like the participative aspect of his series, which is something I am also doing in my own photographic series.

- Personal photo

Show yourself (self-portrait)

This photo for me really what I would show as a definition of the word: contrast. I really wanted this picture to show as many contrasts as possible to illustrate a really important thing for me, which is showing your “true colours”, who you really are, and how that real internal person is often very different from the “public figure”.

To do that, I tried to show pain in my facial expression. I want to show on there how much it hurts to have to keep your inner persona a secret, how hard it is to keep for yourself something that you really want out in the world.

I used colours a lot to emphasise this contrast. The red jumper I am wearing represents the outer shell, vibrant and invincible to the world. However, when one looks at the face, you can see many blue highlights (that I achieved by holding my computer underneath my face with a blue plain image showing). As blue is on the opposite of the colour wheel to red, it adds one more contrast in the image.

The last contrast that I included in the image is done with the lighting. This photograph is shot next to my window, with the blinds closed, which produces a very homogenous diffused light. I decided to keep it on my back, and to have a very dark face in general, to again emphasise the contrast between the outer (the back) and the inner persona (the front).

The other two captions I have for this picture that change its meaning are:

“When You Hit Your Toe on the Table”

“Choking”

If I were to crop the picture to change the meaning, here’s what I would produce:

By cutting out the main subject that shows really what this picture was about and turning it sideways, this picture now shows something utterly different. The play with the white, the beige and the red are already very interesting as colours.

The subject could also be very different. This here could be captioned “A Day at the Beach”, and the viewer could see the sand, the blinding sun and maybe a bright red towel.

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thereallygoodblogshow · 6 years ago

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MA Fashion and Textile Practices Major Project Path - 9th April

After looking at the colour white, I wanted to look at the colour black, as this seems to be the colour of choice for me at the moment within the work I am creating.

Black

In Western culture black is a colour often associated with death, we usually wear black to a funeral and to mourn. We us the word black at the beginning of the words such as ‘blackmail’ and ‘blacklist’ as unfavourable responses. Black can be seen as a colour of depression or evil, so not surprisingly the colour black is seen as a negative colour, but in other respects black is perceived as sophisticated, classy, sexy, mysterious, authoritative, powerful and adorns the wealthy. Combine black with other colours, such as white or red it can be very impactful, black can assist in adding contrast and definition to design. Again on his website Color Meanings Jacob Olesen (2019) describes black as such;

“In color psychology, the color black relates to protection against emotional stress. It creates a barrier between itself and the outside world. It provides comfort while it protects its feelings and hides its vulnerability, insecurity and lack of confidence.”

I suppose this is partly what I am doing within my work, my lack of confidence in my design path is hidden within the use of a strong and impactful aesthetic and the mixing of black and white makes a statement whilst at the same time masking my insecurities - a colour oxymoron!

The colour black is of course synonymous with fashion, who doesn’t remember Audrey Hepburn dressed in one of the most famous ‘Little Black Dresses’ of all time - designed by Givenchy - in her role as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s? In a role originally sited for Marilyn Monroe, Hepburn is cast as a girl striving for the better things in life and doing some risqué things to get them. She plays Holly Golightly a Cafe Society girl - or ‘lady of the evening’ as described by film director Lee Strasberg, who advised Marilyn Monroe against taking the character as it could bad for her image. Almost as an opposing role characteristically to that of her role in My Fair Lady, she is seen in Breakfast at Tiffany’s wearing simple black dresses or clothing of strong block colours, maybe to emphasise the darker side of her character as well as hiding her vulnerability and insecurity. It was filmed at the beginning of the 1960′s and depicted a life that would have been considered quite controversial and mysterious, but the 1960′s were also a time of exploration and empowerment for women, so this possibly highlighted this and helped in the films success.

Kettler, S. (2019). The Parallels Between Audrey Hepburn and Holly Golightly. [Photograph]. Retrieved from https://www.biography.com/news/audrey-hepburn-holly-golightly-breakfast-at-tiffanys-similarities.

In the early 19th century black was adopted by romantic poets such as Shelley, Keats and Byron because black was associated with their melancholic writings, melancholy being the overriding tone of romantic poetry. One of my favourite artists the 19th century English illustrator and author Aubrey Beardsley used black ink almost exclusively in his illustrations, these were heavily influenced by the style of Japanese woodcuts but focused towards the grotesque, the decadent, and the erotic. Beardsley was one of the main members of the Aesthetic movement - a movement which championed the phrase ‘art for art’s sake’ which looked more to the sensual and visual qualities within design over the narrative and practical aspects. Beardsley was also a major contributor to the Art Nouveau movement where his poster designs were highly influential.

Beardsley, A. (1893). The Climax. [Illustration]. Retrieved from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Climax_(illustration).

Beardsley work has always appealed to me. I love the style of his illustrations and the impact of the black ink on white, and I like the sensuality within his strokes, the subject matter usually with some erotic, murderous or melancholic back story. The use of black in art has been contested through the centuries, some artists avoided the heavy use of black, such as Kandinsky who used it more towards the end of his life, almost like a death signifier. Others embraced the use of black, such as in Picasso’s anti-war masterpiece Guernica.

Picasso, P. (1937). Guernica. [Oil on canvas]. Retrieved from https://emptyeasel.com/guernica-famous-cubist-painting-by-pablo-picasso/.

Using a monochromatic palette Picasso produced Guernica as an anti-war protest and a display of anti-Fascism in response to the bombing attack on the small northern Spanish town. The painting is shocking and disturbing to this day. I remember my mum recalling seeing it in real life and crying. The painting does not display any specifics details of the attack but more so depicts his general disgust of war itself. Guernica combines his pioneering style of Cubism along with elements of Surrealism. Here again black is used for impact and contrast combining in a haunting and powerful display of the horrors of war.

On his website Color Meanings Jacob Olesen (2019) also discusses the contrast of black and white;

“Black hides things, while white brings them into the light. What black hides, white brings back again. We all use the black color at different times in our lives, in one way or another, to hide from the world around us.”

So I can assess from this that using black and white as a colour combination is literally and psychologically a contrast, the white bringing positivity and new beginnings, the black adding contrast whilst aiding the white to come forth. It reminded me of Yin and Yang - the concept of dualism within Chinese philosophy. The concept of Yin and Yang dates from the 3rd century or possibly earlier which suggests that all things have an opposite such as; light and dark, male and female, young and old which are contradictory yet inseparable from each other, as the symbol for Yin and Yang illustrates;

Heritage, A. (2017). What is Yin and Yang?. [Illustration]. Retrieved from https://www.heritage.com.sg/blogs/tcm-basics/what-is-yin-and-yang.

In the symbol for Yin and Yang each side has the core element of the other, represented by the eye, or dot. Neither of the sides are superior to the other, and if one were to increase it would decrease the other, so a perfect balance of both must be had in order to achieve harmony. The name Yin and Yang originated from the Chinese school of Yinyang which studied this philosophy and cosmology in the 3rd century. The Yin and Yang philosophy was mainly devised by cosmologist Zou Yan (or Tsou Yen) who believed that as we travel through life we pass through 5 different phases - fire, water, metal, wood and earth - which a continuously altered and changed to maintain harmony throughout our life.

So if they are opposite forces what does Yin represent?

Feminine, black, dark, North, water, passive, Moon, Earth, cold, old, even numbers, valleys, poor, soft, and provides spirit to all things.

And what about Yang?

Masculine, white, light, South, fire, active, Sun, Heaven, warm, young, odd numbers, mountains, rich, hard, and provides form to all things.

I can actually relate well to this philosophy. I am female so do relate more to the Yin side, I like the colour black, the Earth (being the Earth sign Taurus in astrology) the Moon, the soft and spiritual in things. I am quite a grounded person but do like to try and understand the spiritual aspects of life, so I do lean more towards the dark side, not that I will be joining Darth Vader anytime soon! I also see elements of Yang in me too, I am quite young at heart, enjoy warm relationships, feeling safe and having enough money to not stress over things in life - money being something which has been lacking for quite a few years! Achieving this MA will hopefully resolve that aspect of my life, as well as gaining some balance and harmony too.

Website: Olesen, J. (2019). Black Color Meaning – The Color Black. Retrieved from https://www.color-meanings.com/black-color-meaning-the-color-black/.

Website: Cartwright, M. (2018). Yin and Yang. Retrieved from https://www.ancient.eu/Yin_and_Yang/.

Website: Wikipedia. (2019). Black. Retrieved from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black

Website: Tate. (n.d). Aubrey Beardsley. Retrieved from https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artists/aubrey-beardsley-716.

Website: Empty Easel. (n.d). Guernica by Pablo Picasso. Retrieved from https://emptyeasel.com/guernica-famous-cubist-painting-by-pablo-picasso/.

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