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back2thebasics · 5 months

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Gojo X Reader - First post!

MDNI - 18+ - Fem Reader x Satoru Gojo

Gojo x Reader - Bad Reputation

Synopsis: You're tasked with being a publicist for Satoru Gojo. For most the job would be a dream come true but you dread the job because of his recent behavior. Nights out partying till 3 am and leaving with random women. You decide to schedule an in-person meeting to discuss his recent paparazzi pictures and his declining reputation.

I drew the fanart myself and I will be posting it in a separate post.

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He’s late as always. You watch as he casually strolls into the small restaurant without a care in the world. He wears a pair of black designer sunglasses and a mostly black outfit to match. It's a stark comparison to his icy white hair which is perfectly coiffed. He spots you and smiles wider in that cheeky grin that you have grown accustomed to. His long strides bring him to you in a few steps.

“Wow, look at you today. You're all dolled up. Is there a special occasion?” He teases and pulls out the chair across from you then plops down into it somehow remaining graceful.

“These are just my professional clothes, also you're late. I've been waiting an hour for you. Where were you?” you ask, hiding most of your impatience.

“Sorry I was busy. I had to drop someone off.” He replies.

“Please tell me you were discreet about it.” You scrunch your brow knowing the answer already.

“Does it matter? You're the one who told me last week that I have a reputation as a womanizer.” Gojo’s piercing blue eyes barely visible beneath his shades.

“Yeah but if you want that sponsorship to choose you over the other candidate, you're gonna have to clean up your act. They're looking for someone that is marketable to a wide audience not some playboy who is out clubbing every night.” You let your emotions show in your tone a little more.

This man will make you go gray early with the way you have been juggling his public image. Despite everything you have gone through for his career, you found yourself thinking about him more than you should.

“Alright whatever you say, darling. I'll tone it down but only on one condition.” Satoru leans forward propping his elbows on the table.

“What do you want?” You ask skeptically.

“Go on a night out with me. Not for work but just for fun. The rules are no thinking of work and if you hate it then you never have to do it again. I'll be good, but only if you let loose for one night. So what do you say?” Gojo quirks his head slightly waiting for your response.

“So just one night and you'll stop all the partying and the hookups? It seems way too easy, what's the catch?” You scrunch your brows not buying a word.

“Catch? There's no catch. I promise. Come on it’ll be fun. Think of it like a work trip, but it's all fun and no business. Sounds like fun right?” He tries to convince you flashing his perfect white teeth in an arrogant smile.

“Fine but no funny business okay, and I'm not leaving after the bar closes. I decide when it's time to go.” You set your terms.

“Deal.” His smile is blinding.

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A few nights later…

You enter the club with Satoru following behind you. Of course he picked the most popular spot in the city. You have been to clubs before but you prefer the chill atmosphere of a nice bar instead of extremely loud music and sweaty bodies grinding against each other. You dressed up for the vibe of the place. A small tight black dress and heels paired with a full glam. If there are gonna be pictures of you two in the press at least you will look good. It is inevitable but after tonight he has promised to tone it down to make your job easier. All you have to do is get through the night. Should be easy right?

Gojo walks over to the VIP section immediately after the bouncer nods you in and lets you skip the long line outside. I guess being this famous has its perks. You feel a strong hand on the small of your back. You look back to see Gojo smile down at you and nod over to the bar. He leans down to say something in your ear so you can hear him over the music.

“Can I get you a drink, darling?” You feel his breath against your neck and it sends tingles down your spine. You blush and look over to the busy bar where there is another line forming.

“Yeah I guess one drink wouldn't hurt but it looks pretty busy we might have to wait a while.” You reply into his ear which is at a perfect height with him leaning down. He pulls back and smiles with a wink before continuing to lead you further into VIP.

Hidden away in the back of VIP is a second bar that is way less busy and looks to have all the top shelf liquors. He leads you to a set of two leather armchairs on the left of the bar. He sits down in one of them and then motions for you to sit as well.

“Shouldn't we go order?”

Right as the question leaves your mouth a gentleman dressed in an all black suit approaches both of you carrying a tray. He sets down a carafe of ice water and a set of empty glasses.

“What can I get you and the lovely lady tonight Sir?” He questions seeming to know Gojo already. He must be a regular here.

“I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks.” He motions to you for your order.

“I’ll take a mojito.” You tell the server

“Perfect, I will be back with those drinks in a minute.” The server goes to the bar and gives the order to the bartender.

“So are you having fun yet?” Satoru starts the conversation. He sits leaning back in the chair his leg crossed like he owns the place.

“Yeah, this place is nice.” You lie

“Be honest with me. I can tell when you lie you have a horrible poker face you know.” He jokes looking around the club to the dance floor where an ocean of bodies grind to the music.

“Okay fine, you want me to be honest. Its too hot in here and I feel a little self conscious. I don't know its stupid. Nevermind.” You try to brush it off

“Self conscious? You look hot right now.” He flirts.

“Satoru, stop your my boss, it's weird for you to say I'm hot.” Youre caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. Why is your heart racing suddenly?

“What? I can't say the truth? You are looking stunning this evening not that you don't look good everyday.” Gojo remains cool as a cucumber while you look more like a tomato from the harmless flirting. That’s all this is right? The server returns with the tray of drinks and places them down on the table next to the water. He leaves with a polite nod and you pick up your drink gulping it down needing a little buzz. Satoru takes a sip of his whiskey and sets it back down. He looks over at you with a look you've never seen from him before.

“Follow me I know somewhere less crowded.” He stands taking his drink with him. You do the same and don't have time to question anything before he walks towards a set of double doors. Once inside, you see that it's a pool room set up with 2 pool tables and some couches near the back. The room is completely empty and much cooler in temperature than the rest of the club. He grabs a pool cue from the wall and turns to face you with a cheeky smile.

“Have you ever played before?” He asks handing you the cue and grabbing one for himself.

“No, I've never played. I don't know how.” You reply truthfully. You have no idea how to play and lying won't help you.

“That's okay I can teach you.” He says like it’s no big deal and then he walks over to you and stands behind you. He positions you and instructs you how to shoot but you can't focus with how close he is to you. You feel his strong chest pressing against your back and he gently cradles your arms to show you the proper hand placement. You know your face is probably beet red but you nod along to his explanations trying your best to listen to the rules of the game.

After playing a couple games and him winning both of them you both sit on the couch to finish your drinks. You've been nursing your drink so you don't feel different from when you walked in.

“For a beginner, you're pretty good. Not everyone can keep up with me so that's a sign of natural talent.” He laughs leaning back into the leather sofa and taking a sip of his Whiskey. He has also been drinking slow which is surprising given his recent history of nights on the town.

“Or a sign that I have a good teacher.” You wink at him letting go a little.

“You're right, it's all about how well you listen to instruction.” His tone takes on a flirtatious tone.

Your eyes meet his, he has ditched his usual sunglasses tonight. His crystal clear eyes search yours like he is reading your thoughts. You hope he can't because it would be very embarrassing for you.

“So do you have a boyfriend?” He asks casually still keeping his eyes on you but they start to roam a little as he looks down at your body. You feel your cheeks heat more and you break eye contact. You try to control the flutters in the pit of your stomach at the inquiry.

“No.” Your answer is simple and softly spoken.

“That's good.” His reply is the same

“Why would that be a good thing?” You ask a little breathless from the way your heart rams into your chest again and again.

“Because then I don't have any competition.” He smiles at you but his eyes are heated and his gaze still roams over your body.

“Woah wait a minute, I'm not some toy that you can play around with Satoru. If you brought me here to use like one of your hookups, then you've got it all wrong.” You stand up quickly the flutters dying out at the thought of being just another one of his conquests that he will drop off at 5am.

“Is that what you think of me? That I am just some playboy incapable of feeling something for someone without there being sex involved?” He asks quirking a brow. He sounds almost hurt that you see him that way.

“No, but I am your publicist I didn't exactly think you were flirting with me when I asked you to meet up so you could clean up your act.” You grab the wine glass and chug the rest of the red wine.

“Why do you think I suddenly started acting out and bringing attention to myself when that wasn't an issue before?” Gojo chuckles downing the rest of his drink as well. He looks off pensively.

“What? So you did all that to get my attention. Trust me there are other ways to do that! I dont know a text or email would have done the job.” You pace in front of the couches running your hand through your hair. The last 2 month's worth of stress pushing down on you, the late nights trying to get bad paparazzi pictures off the internet were just the tip of the iceberg.

“That's lame and so not my style. I must admit the first time was an accident and then when you called me and got all mad at me I just thought it was… I don't know cute.” He watches you pace his eyes following your movement.

“Cute!? It was not cute, I’ll tell you that. It was stressful and infuriating to see pictures of you drunk with some random girl leaving a club every night. Do you know how hard it is to get paparazzi to delete stuff like that? I had to pay off so many people. Yeah sure it was with your money but still!” You vent not even caring that he is your boss anymore. He put you through this so he gets to sit here and listen to your rant.

“Another thing that got me hooked was seeing you get jealous. Although you might not admit it to me. Every time you would call I could hear it in your voice.” Gojo looks amused but you can tell he is being serious.

“I am not!” The lie leaves your lips and as it does, the realization hits you. You are jealous.

The silence confirms it.

“Fine. Maybe I am a little jealous but what does it matter? I'm still your publicist.” You grumble crossing your arms in defiance.

He stands up towering over you and he walks over to you standing close enough that you need to tilt your head up to look at him.

“Then I'll just fire you. Simple as that.” Satoru says it like it's the simplest logical answer.

“What? No! You don't have to fire me. Just tell me what you want.” You look up into his ocean eyes searching to see if he is joking, but it is the most serious you've ever seen him. He usually has a laid back nonchalance to him but not right now. His heated gaze and the way he leans into you intently the tension between the two of you is electrifying.

“I am interested in you and I have never been this intrigued by someone before. So if you will agree I would like to see where this goes.” Gojo looks at you with desire and yearning. You can see that he has been thinking about this a lot.

“Okay fine we can see where this goes but I am going to be honest I don't know where to start.” You look away feeling embarrassed. You don't have a lot of experience and especially not in situations like these. Does he want to go on a proper date or skip all that stuff?

“Maybe we can start here.” You feel his hand gently grasp your chin as he turns you towards him to look at him once more. He leans in and has to bend down to accommodate for the height difference. Your breath catches in your throat and threatens to leap out of your chest. He gets closer and the instinct to close your eyes takes over as his lips finally meet yours. There are instant sparks and something inside you snaps. Your lips press together and the kiss intensifies as he gently swipes his tongue across your bottom lip. You can't stop the moan that comes from you and he pulls away smirking.

“We can slow it down.” Gojo looks like he is holding himself back. The thought of stopping makes your stomach twist. You want him too.

“No.” The response is rushed and breathless.

Satoru pulls you in for another kiss. This one is more hungry and intense than the last. You let out another soft moan and his hands slide down to cup your ass. The hem of your dress is near the tips of his fingers and if he wanted to, he could pull your dress off in one quick motion. Your heart skips a beat at the thought of that happening. He pulls away again and his face remains inches away from yours.

“Should I lock the door?” he asks his voice low because of the close proximity.

You simply nod not wanting to fumble over a response and ruin the moment. You have had sex before but something about Satoru Gojo is different.

He makes you feel shy and flustered. As he turns to go lock the door, you watch him saunter away with his usual walk but a little more rushed. You admire his wispy white locks that you resisted gripping when you were kissing. Your gaze travels down his muscled back towards the narrow hips that make his shoulders look bigger. Then you stare at his butt a little, his tight dress pants make it look so cute and you think about how he would react if you tried to grab it. The thought makes you smile and you don't notice how quickly he has turned around because he catches you staring at his ass.

“Are you enjoying what you see beautiful?” He taunts teasingly as he strides over to you.

“Oh, my god I was definitely not checking you out.” You laugh trying to play off the embarrassment.

“Oh, you definitely were.” Gojo reaches you and his body backs you into the nearest pool table. He boxes you in and places his strong forearms on either side of you. He leans down and your heart rate picks up

“So where were we?” He asks in a sultry voice,

“I don't know you tell me.” You reply with a slight challenge.

He responds with actions instead of words and he pulls you into another passionate kiss. He slides his large hands down your body and then when he reaches your ass he surprises you by lifting you up and setting you down on the edge of the pool table. It adjusts your height difference and he no longer needs to bend down to reach your lips. Now that you are the same height you lace your arms around his neck and the previous urge to run your fingers through his hair overpowers you. His hair is so soft and fine that it feels like silk and you hear a low rumble coming from Gojo when you gently grip it in between your fingers.

His large hands grip your hips and he pulls you in even closer until you are pressed up against him and you can feel something hard pressing against your lower stomach. You moan into the kiss and slide one hand down from his neck to his crotch once you reach your target your hand lightly rubs over it over his pants and he nips your bottom lip before pulling away. He pulls back far enough so he can look you in the eyes and he looks conflicted.

“If we keep this up. I- “He huffs, cutting himself off and then he continues.

“I don't want you to think this is just about sex.” His tone turns more serious and his eyes search yours to see what you're feeling.

“I didn't mean what I said earlier. You're right, I was jealous when I saw you with those girls but I pushed it away because I thought the feeling was stupid.” You reply telling him the truth.

All those photos you saw and all the times you wished you were the woman in the picture with him. Now that fantasy was coming true.

“You know I never actually hooked up with any of those girls in the photos. I only escorted them home because they were too drunk.” Gojo tells you and from his sincere expression you can tell he isn't lying.

“So you were just being some hero all along making sure women got home safe. Here I was stressing that you were going off the rails.” You can't help but laugh.

“I’m not a hero for doing the right thing, I'm just a responsible owner.” He replies casually.

“Owner? You own this place?” You question shocked. You knew he had a few properties in the city but he didn't mention he owned clubs.

“Yeah this one and a few others you have probably already seen me leaving. All for work purposes. Did I have a drink or two on the job, of course, but I wasn't there to party like you thought. Was I going to tell you that? Absolutely not. All because of those phone calls I'd get from you the next morning where you’d scold me and use your cute little annoyed voice. I'm sorry it caused you stress, but I didn't know how to get you to talk to me more.” Gojo smiles at you and he looks almost nervous.

You making him nervous gives you the confidence to say what you're thinking without restraint.

“You know, it’s funny, because I used to fantasize about being one of those girls. I would imagine what it would be like to be with “The Satoru Gojo” and I would think of all the things you would do to me. I always repressed those thoughts thinking I was delusional for thinking about you that way.” You recall the nights you stayed up tossing and turning over your confused feelings for your client.

Satoru grasps your chin and smiles devilishly at you.

“Is that so? You've been thinking about me. What do I do to you in these fantasies?” He questions you teasingly, and it sends a new wave of heat through your body.

“You see me on a night out and you order me a drink then you kiss me and we fuck in the bathroom of the club or your car.” You tell him exactly what you picture in your mind.

“Well lucky for us being the boss comes with a bit more privacy.” He jokes and leans in again.

You kiss him with need and undo his pants and he gently lifts your ass to pull up your tight black dress. You help him by lifting your ass a little so he can successfully take off your dress. You're left in a black lacy set that you chose to go with the black satin dress. You're happy you decided on a matching set tonight not thinking anyone would see it especially not Gojo. He admires your body and pulls down his pants leaving him in tight black boxers. He unbuttons his shirt his eyes tracing over every single inch of your exposed skin.

You take your turn admiring his body when he finally peels off his shirt to reveal sculpted abs, and a broad muscled chest. You can't help but touch as you place your hands over his warm chest. His beautiful ivory skin, decorated with beauty marks like the finishing touches to an artist's masterpiece.

“There are no words for a sight like this. You are absolutely breathtaking my darling.�� He glides his hands over your thighs which are parted around his hips. He suddenly seems to get an idea and you watch as he lowers himself to kneel in front of you. You still sit on the edge of the pool table so his face is now eye level with your lacy black thong.

“How about I help you relieve some of the stress I caused in the past 2 months. It's the least I can do.” His confident borderline arrogant cadence turns you on even more.

“Well, I guess you're right. I would like compensation for the gray hairs and the frown lines I will develop soon.” You joke but run your fingers through his hair and he makes a low humming sound in his chest as he slowly pulls your thong down your thighs. He looks you in the eye and you keep your hand gripped in his hair as he reveals your soaking wet pussy. Gojo grips the back of your knees and in one swift moment he scoops you up so your bottom half is dangling off the pool table being supported by his strong grip on your thighs. You let go of his hair and lean back on your elbows on the soft velvet table and watch as he kisses your inner thighs trailing down to your core. You enjoy the sight of it and feel your pussy getting even wetter. He finally reaches your dripping slit and licks a trail from the bottom of your opening to your clit. You gasp and let out a soft moan.

“Mm, you taste so sweet beautiful” He looks up at you with sparkling blue eyes and you grip his hair a little tighter.

He goes back to your core and focuses on your clit sucking it gently and flicking his tongue. Your eyes roll back and your head falls back as you release a breathy moan. He keeps the suction from his lips around your clit and teases a finger at your entrance. He enters it slowly and your hips squirm enjoying the slightly larger size than your own. Your moans grow louder as he begins to curl the finger hitting your g spot just right. He increases the suction and speed and it tips you over the edge. You've never come this fast in your life and your legs begin to shake uncontrollably. You ride the orgasm and he doesn't stop until you're coming down from the second wave.

“Does that feel better? I love seeing you come for me.” He praises you looking at you with the most satisfied smirk.

“I want you Satoru.” Your response is breathy and comes out as a plea. Your throbbing pussy aches for him.

You sit up and he stands up so you can see the thick outline of his large shaft through the tight black fabric of his briefs. You help him pull it down and off and you watch as his large cock springs free of the restrictive material.

Your mouth almost waters at the sight of it and you make a mental note to return the favor later. He surprises you when he picks you up and you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him giggling a little when he walks the both of you to the nearest couch where he puts you down. His large body hovers above yours as he lines his tip to your slick entrance. He enters nice and slow and you feel as he fills you inch by inch until his full length is inside you.

“Fuck, you're so tight baby.” Gojo readjusts himself and then slowly pulls out to push back in. You're not used to someone his size so there is a slight discomfort but it only lasts a few thrusts and then it’s replaced with pleasure. You moan as he picks up the pace slightly and gently squeezes your tit with one hand while the other keeps him from crushing you with his body weight. He leans back and you watch him fuck you slowly. Then he slowly increases pace looking into your eyes.

“You are so pretty when you’re under me moaning on my cock.” He praises you his heated gaze admiring you. He takes both of your hands and pins them above your head with one hand. You feel a rush of pleasure as your pussy clenches.

“Satoru fuck that's so good.” You moan out.

“Oh you like that beautiful. I felt your tight little pussy grip my cock.”

“Yes I love it so much.” You reply feeling hazy from the pleasure. Gojo teases your nipple with his thumb and index and the slight twinge of pain when he plucks sends a rush of wetness to your already soaked cunt. He grunts taking on a fast slightly rougher pace. He pumps into you holding onto your legs so he can spread you wide for him. He reaches down with one hand and rubs circles on your clit with his thumb. Your moans get louder and needier as you climb up to the peak of another orgasm. It crashes into you just as strongly as the first one and you see stars as he pounds you through the toe curling climax. Once you're finished, he does not stop. He fucks you hard and fast, pounding into you. You feel yourself building to a third orgasm, Satoru's pace does not slow and his hand returns to your clit. He pushes you to climax once more just as he reaches his own. He pulls out swiftly to cum on your abdomen. You watch as he releases, and the sight is magnificent. Gojo leans forward to kiss your forehead and then he peppers kisses down your face until he reaches your lips where he gives you another deep passionate kiss. He pulls away and quickly walks over to a bar cart in the room containing a few cloth napkins. He grabs a few and returns to you to clean up your stomach. You watch as he cleans you attentively making sure to clean it properly. He helps you put on your underwear and dress before he dresses himself.

“Now I'm sure you're already aware about the paparazzi waiting for us outside. I will hold your hand the whole time just close your eyes for the bright flashes, and I'll lead you to my car.” He tells you caressing your hair.

“Oh, trust me I came prepared for that. That was also part of my fantasy.” You joke and he laughs and gives you a kiss before leading both of you out through the back where a small crowd of paparazzi stand in the back alley.

The flashes are blinding but you close your eyes and let the strong hand guide you. You trust him and while he leads you to his car. You remember seeing those pictures of him in this exact spot. Now you're the one leaving the club with him and as the camera flashes surround you, you can't help but smile.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jjk smut #gojo satoru #satoru gojo smut #gojou satoru x reader #reader x satoru #gojo x reader

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prettyinpurplelights · 2 years

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IV.

“I cannot believe we actually made it.” Mia gripped your hand excitedly, her acrylic nails digging painfully into your skin.

“Girl, hold my hand any tighter and you’ll crush my bones. I won’t have a hand to collect my diploma with.” You giggled softly, prying her fingers off the back of your hand so you could lace your fingers together instead, her sweaty palm pressing against yours.

“Sorry.” She replied and you squeezed her hand in response. “I’m just so nervous, can you believe after all our hard work, we’re finally here?”

“I know.” You sighed, looking out into the audience of family members and friends that were filling into the giant cathedral to watch and support their loved ones on one of the most important days of their lives. You and Mia had finally come to the end of your degrees, and today would encapsulate the last four years of all nighters and countless assignments. You were graduating with a Master’s degree in fashion design and marketing, Mia in medical neuroscience with psychology. As well as saying goodbye to your university, you were both parting ways with the city too, leaving Marseille for Paris early the following morning. During your final year, your main project was to put on your own fashion show, making the pieces as well as being responsible for promoting and marketing the event. You didn’t sleep for several weeks, but it had all been worth it because the show was a huge success, landing you the highest grade in your cohort as well as a job waiting for you at Louis Vuitton, whom having interned for them the summer before, and after your show being such a hit, offered you a place at their headquarters in Paris. Mia had also secured a fellowship in one of the biggest hospitals in the country, working with their research department on new treatments and cures and finding the causes for all sorts of illnesses to do with the brain that she had tried to explain to you but had gone completely over your head. All you understood was that it was incredibly competitive and very hard to get into, so you were extremely proud of her, and very excited to start this new chapter of your young adult lives together. You had already leased an apartment to share, and moved almost all your stuff over during the summer break. It was now a matter of starting to unpack and make it more of a home when you both returned to Paris for the last time in less than 24 hours.

“Ouuu I see Elliot!” Mia squealed, waving her hand that wasn’t holding yours excitedly. “He’s with our parents, come on, let's go and say hi before grad starts.” She stood up, dragging you down the small steps where the choir would usually be during mass, instead, today, it was where the graduates were to be seated during the graduation ceremony. She pulled you through the aisle, mumbling a few excuse me’s as you weaved through the sea of people talking to each other, the atmosphere electrified with excitement and anticipation for the upcoming ceremony.

“Mommy, Daddy!” Mia's smile grew wider as she hugged her parents tightly. Her parents had moved to London when she was 14, her dad’s hotel business was expanding and he’d started to branch out into the rest of Europe. Mia was supposed to have gone with them but she didn’t want to move to England, and after a lot of bargaining, she’d managed to agree with her parents that she’d live with her grandmother instead, hence how you became friends, she had moved to Bondy late into the school year and the only spare seat in your form tutor was next to you and the rest was history. Unfortunately, Mia’s grandmother had passed away just before she was due to start university, and since she was officially an adult, her parents let her stay in France. She’d fly out to see them regularly but it had been a while since she last saw them, and they’re very busy people so you knew she was very pleased to have them here and you’re glad they could show up for her.

You hugged your own parents, your dad clicking at his camera repeatedly, making sure he had enough photos to commemorate this occasion.

“Dad, I don’t even think I’m in the frame in the one you just took.” You laughed at him, as he squinted behind the lens.

“Close enough! I’m so proud of you, my sweet baby girl.” He leant over to kiss your cheek before walking off, muttering about finding someone to take a group photograph.

“You know I don’t think he made such a fuss when I was graduating.” Elliot appeared by your side, his hand reaching up to grab your cap, to remove it so he could ruffle your hair. You ducked under his arm, knowing exactly what he was trying to do and pushed him away from you.

“Don’t you dare El, I was up at 6 this morning doing my hair, you’re not messing it up!” You scowled. “And besides, we both know I’m mum and dad’s favourite.” You added. A smug smile spread across your face as you shrugged your shoulders.

“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes. “At least I’m the smart one, all you do is play with pretty fabric all day.” Elliot had graduated with a degree in sports science the year before, ending up at PSG, working as part of their medical staff. From what he had told you, he was really enjoying himself, and it probably helped that it was the same team Kylian played for, those two together, you were sure they were putting the other PSG players and staff members through hell.

“You know without people like Y/N, the rest of us would have nothing to wear, you’d be naked right now.” Mia slid up to Elliot, her arm wrapping around his waist as his went over her shoulder and squeezed it.

“I know you wouldn’t complain about that.” He replied.

“Mmmm, probably not.” She looked up at him, pursing her lips as he reached down to kiss her.

“Ew, the both of you. Please, I’m literally standing right here.”

They both laughed, pulling away just as your dad returned, some poor 20-something looking boy in his stead, holding the camera.

“Where’s Marco? Is he not coming?” Elliot asked, craning his head around to see if he could spot your boyfriend.

“Um…he’s in Tokyo. We broke up.”

Ex-boyfriend.

“Oh shit, sorry sis. What hap-“

“Group photo everyone, quick together!” Your dad interrupted his sentence, and you were thankful for his extraness in that moment, not wanting to answer any questions about your break-up. Your dad ushered you, your mum, Elliot, Mia and her parents into a huddle. It took a couple of minutes to organise everybody, your dad was kind of a perfectionist; it’s probably where Elliot got it from. You were stood between Mia and your mum, your brother behind the both of you. You turned to face him and from the look in your eyes and the way your lip turned downward slightly, he knew what you were going to ask, the issue of Marco long forgotten. Someone else was on your mind now.

“He’s going to be here Y/N. He might be a bit late, but he’ll be here.”

“He didn’t come down with you?”

“I had to pick Mum and Dad up so we got a later flight, he said he’d make it down himself. He wouldn’t miss this. I’m sure he’s on his way.”

You nodded, as you turned back to the boy holding the camera, mustering up the biggest smile you could, trying to ignore the way your heart felt so heavy in your chest and the sudden way your gown started to feel stuffy and uncomfortable. You and Kylian weren’t on bad terms, in fact, you were great. It had been almost three years since you’d decided to take a step back from him, and focus on yourself and who you were outside loving him. Not to say you stopped loving him, you don’t think that was something you’d ever be able to do, but you’d reached a point where he wasn’t all you thought about and it didn’t dictate everything you did and consume your entire being. You’d even managed to date someone this year, your first official boyfriend, Marco, for about 10 months, until he had to move to Japan for a student exchange transfer and you’d mutually decided to end things while you were on a good note because long distance for a whole year was not worth it; you’d remained friends though. You liked him a lot, but you didn’t love him, which was one of the reasons why he’d also agreed, howbeit reluctantly, to break up before his transfer, he’d told you he loved you 2 months prior and you were still yet to say it back. He had wanted to stay for you, but you encouraged him to go, not wanting to hold him back, especially when his feelings were so strong for you and yours were…well, not as strong. You didn’t want to disappoint him if you still couldn’t commit several months down the line and he’d thrown his future away for you.

“Graduates please make your way to your assigned seats, the ceremony will begin in 5 minutes.”

You and Mia hugged your families one more time before making your way back towards the stage. Your phone buzzed in your hand as you sat down, bringing it up to your face.

“Kylian?” Mia asked, her inquisitive nature causing her to lean over your shoulder and read the text on your phone.

“Ouuuu Marcoooo.” She sang teasingly as sat back and unlocked her own phone.

Hey, I know we’re not together anymore, but you’re still my friend so I wanted to wish you luck today! ♥️ proud of you always

Thank you Marco 🥺 I really appreciate it. How’s Japan treating you?

It’s amazing. The culture is just wow. And the sushi DEFINITELY tastes better here. You’d love it.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type out a reply when he sent another message.

I miss you.

You heard Mia wince audibly next to you, obviously reading the conversation between you and Marco.

“Get your big ass head out of my business.” You bumped your shoulder against hers as you sent Marco a quick reply about the ceremony starting so you had to go, not at all in the mood to unpack what that “I miss you” meant.

“Shame. I liked Marco. He was good for you.”

“Mmmm.”

“At least he congratulated you, better than that idiot your brother calls a best friend.”

“Ky’s our best friend too. And I thought you were on his side? Team KyY/N?”

“That was two years ago Y/N. He couldn’t even be bothered to send you a message about not coming.”

“El said he’d be here.”

“You think so?”

“I told him about today personally. He promised me he’d be here. For the both of us.”

“Oh we both know which one of us he’s coming for. And honestly I couldn’t give a fuck if he shows up for me, no offence. But for you? I’m skinning him alive the second we get to Paris.”

“He’ll be here.” You whispered to no one, almost as though you were trying to convince yourself. He had given you his word he wouldn’t miss today when you’d called him a few months ago about it. Initially you thought it might be weird, speaking to him on the phone, since you’d only been texting recently, but the thing about you and Kylian is no matter how much time you spent apart, you never fail to fall right back into your usual stead of things.

You hadn’t seen him since your birthday at the end of January, where there’d been a sort of awkward moment when you’d introduced him to Marco, who then had been your official boyfriend for a couple of weeks. He had just gotten back together with Renee, they had been together since your little confrontation at the airport two years back when you’d told him to focus on her. They had been on and off since they’d started dating, from what you’ve seen in the media, Kylian never really talked to you about her. From what you’d read over the course of the years, they’d broken up a couple of times, not that you cared or were keeping count.

******

He picked up after 3 rings, his face filling the screen when he answered. You gave him a little wave and a smile spread across his features, his dimples greeting you.

“Y/N. Hey.”

“Hi!” You replied, your voice chirpier than you’d expected it to be.

“You okay? Did something happen?”

He must’ve noticed the way you anxiously chewed at your bottom lip, your telltale sign something was wrong or you were nervous. In a similar way, he would squeeze his eyebrows together and his nose would twitch involuntarily when he was feeling the same. The harder he scrunched his eyebrows, the less nervous he was, the increased frequency of frown lines strewn across his forehead meant he was more likely to be angry instead. You knew each other’s tics and tells, probably better than you knew your own. By logic you and Kylian should’ve worked, you complemented and contrasted each other in the most perfect ways, but for some reason, the universe didn’t seem to agree and rather preferred to have the two of you in constant awkward situations and miscommunications leading to petty arguments. It was a quite cruel joke to be honest.

“Um, no, everything’s fine, I’m good. I was just wondering what you were doing August 1st.”

“Hmmm, the league starts again the week after that I’m sure, so just training.”

“Or nothing, if that’s what you need me to be doing.” He added and you couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered a little bit his words.

“Well Mia and I are finally graduating on the 1st. My parents and Elliot will be there. I was wondering if you wanted to come-“

“I’ll be there.”

“Really?” He laughed at your response.

“Gummy, you’ve wanted to be a fashion designer for as long as I’ve known you. I remember when you took it upon yourself to be mine and El’s stylists in middle school, I don’t even know why I let you do that, you used to put me in the most ridiculous outfits.”

“All you wanted to wear to school was your football kit.” You rolled your eyes. “I was trying to broaden your horizon a little bit.”

“Even then, you had talent, I can’t even imagine what you’re able to do now.”

“Well not to brag, but I am on track to finish top of my class.”

“Didn’t expect anything less from my girl.” He smiled genuinely and heat rose rapidly to your cheeks as you looked away from him for a moment.

“Of course I want to be there for you. But are you sure you’re 100% about it? Not to brag, but I am kind of a hotshot on the football scene right now.” He mocked, using your words against you playfully.

“Oh shut up!”

He laughed again, before continuing.

“I’m serious though Y/N, I know you like to stay out of the limelight and stuff, I don’t want to ruin that for you or steal attention away. This isn’t a private party like your birthday.”

“I want you there Ky, I want everyone I love there. I’ll be okay.” You nodded. Just then, you heard your boyfriend call out from your bedroom, his voice growing louder as he neared you in the kitchen.

“You ready babe?” He wrapped his arms around your waist, pressed a kiss against your cheek when he noticed you were on the phone.

“Oh hey man!” He waved at the screen. “How are you doing Kylian!”

“Hey…Marco. I’m good.” The smile on Kylian’s face dropped briefly as he greeted your boyfriend with a slight grimace. You quirked your eyebrow, wondering what the hell that was about but now it was his turn to break eye contact, looking everywhere but at you and Marco.

“How’s Renee?”

“Ummm she’s good. We’re…good.”

“Still can’t believe this guy is dating the biggest supermodel in the world, very fitting.”

You scowled, turning to face Marco, his comment grating on you a little bit.

“As opposed to you dating what?” You questioned, daring him to say some more bullshit.

“The hottest, smartest, kindest girl in the world of course.”

“Hmmm, better be.”

“How did you deal with her quick temper all your life Kylian?” Marco asked, and you elbowed his rib in response.

“You see what I mean?” He laughed, walking away from you. Kylian didn’t even bat an eye, he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else in the world at that moment.

“So anyways-“ You started but Kylian interrupted you, the words tumbling out of his mouth faster than you could register them.

“I gotta go. But I’ll be there August 1st. You have my word.”

“Oh, okay, yeah sure. Say hi to Renee for me.” You had barely managed to get out before he ended the FaceTime abruptly.

******

That was the last time you’d spoken, save the occasional text, but not once had he mentioned he wouldn’t be able to make it to your graduation. So by the time the ceremony was done and you had collected your diploma and walked down the aisle to cheers from your family, received more congratulations and took even more pictures and said your goodbyes to your family, to say you were simply pissed off was a great understandment. Some fool had even thought it would be funny to do Kylian’s infamous goal celebration in front of the cameras before collecting his diploma which amused everyone in the cathedral but vexed you even more. Kylian had always been there for you, he’s always tried his best to be present when you needed him, this was one of very few times he hadn’t shown up for you. But it hurt still, this was probably the most important thing you’d needed him for, and he’d not even bothered to shoot you a text he would be a no show.

“I know for sure he got on that plane Y/N.” Elliot had tried to reassure you earlier when you’d walked him and your parents to the Uber they had booked to take them back to the airport.

“Well that means fuck all to me. He’s not here.”

“Gosh he’s such an idiot. I’m going to skin him alive when I see him.”

“Funny your girlfriend said the same thing.” You laughed, but not really feeling humoured in the slightest. “Don’t worry about it El, I don’t know why I expected any different from him.”

“I know he has the funniest way of showing it, but he cares about you Y/N. And he loves you.” You ignored his comment, giving him one last hug before he slid into the front seat of the cab.

“I love you El.”

“Love you too sis. Always. You and Mia have fun tonight alright? And I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

You nodded, saying goodbye to your parents once more before the car pulled away. Mia appeared at your side, leaning her head on your shoulder.

“Mia?”

“Mmhm?” She replied.

“Let’s get absolutely fucking wasted tonight.”

———

“Why the fuck did you listen to me when I said we should get wasted last night.” You groaned, flopping onto the couch, your suitcases abandoned by the door. You’d finally arrived at your apartment in Paris, a little before midday, exhausted and terribly hungover.

“You looked like you needed it.” Mia sat by your side, laying your head on her chest and rubbing your shoulders.

“You’re so lucky you recover quickly, I still feel like I’ve been hit by a monster truck.”

“I’m gonna go out and do some food shopping, I’ll bring you something. Get some rest.”

You’d practically gone straight from the bar to the train station. You, Mia and your group of university friends had gone out to celebrate graduating, and also spend one last night together before you all split and went your different ways. It had been a great night, but you’re definitely regretting it now, as you were sure the others were too. You hadn’t even had a chance to shower as you and Mia had to pack the last of your stuff and hand in your old keys to the landlord before 7am since the train to Paris Lyon was leaving Marseille St. Charles around 8.

You decided to take a long shower while Mia was gone, you usually felt much better after a good soak. You’re glad to have your little travel toiletries bag because you had absolutely no idea where anything was; the apartment was filled with countless unopened cardboard boxes. You had about two weeks before your new job started so you and Mia could hopefully unpack and decorate in that time.

Definitely starting tomorrow. There was absolutely no way you’d be putting together furniture and organising your wardrobe today, you planned to stay in bed as long as you could instead.

You had just stepped out of the shower when you heard the doorbell ring, probably Mia who had forgotten her keys. You wrapped your towel around you, securing it as you opened the door.

“Did you not take your key-“ You looked up, your sentence breaking down half way through when you realised it wasn’t Mia in front of you. You rolled your eyes, moving to close the door in his face but he was quick, his foot reaching out to block the door from locking.

“Y/N, hear me out, please.”

“I don’t give a fuck about what you have to say Kylian, take your foot out of the way before I crush it.”

“I have boba?”

You paused for a second, still refusing to look at him.

“What flavour.”

“Mango milk tea with passion fruit pearls. I brought croissants too, from the best bakery in Paris. Very expensive. Very tasty.”

You opened the door wider, letting him walk through, cursing him for knowing you so well. He set the items on the little bit of space he could find on the kitchen worktop that wasn’t covered in boxes before turning to look at you.

His eyes scanned your body, starting at your legs, stopping when his eyes met yours. You felt stuck to the spot, your blood turning to lead as your eyes remained fixed on his, his mouth slightly ajar, your heart pounding fast. You forgot you were angry at him for a minute, flashbacks of the last time he’d seen you like this flickering across your mind instead as you suddenly remembered you were wearing next to nothing. Your hands came up to cover your chest and legs, breaking the both of you out of your hypnotic state.

“Umm…I’ll be back. Gonna put something on.” You muttered.

“Yeah…umm…sure, I’ll wait here.”

You raced to your room as quickly as you could, ignoring the funny feeling in your stomach and the way your heart was racing like it was running out of time. You rummaged through the boxes, trying to find one that had some clothes in it. After a couple of minutes of sifting through books and shoes and everything else, you managed to find a bag at the bottom of one of the boxes with your gym clothing.

You pulled the shorts and a t-shirt over your head, rolling your eyes when you realised which top you were wearing. You walked back into the room with your arms crossed, trying your best to look angry as you faced Kylian, a smile spreading across his face when he noticed your top.

“Wipe that smug grin off your face, I could only find my gym stuff and it was the only top in there.”

“You work out with my name on your back?” He held out the boba to you, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Shut up. These jerseys are surprisingly very breathable.” You snatched the plastic cup out of his grasp, piercing the film lid with the straw and taking a sip.

“Well yeah, we do run around in them for 90 minutes so we’d hope they’re breathable. Remind me to get you a new one from this season though, that one’s a bit outdated.”

“This one’s just fine. Thank you for the boba.” You raised the cup at him before stretching your hand out, pointing to the open door that led to the hallway. “You can go now.”

“Y/N-“

“Kylian I don’t want to hear it. You think what, by bringing my favourite drink and cracking jokes everything’s okay?”

“No, of course not. I tried to call you last night.“

“And I didn’t answer for a fucking reason. Did it cross your mind maybe I didn’t want to talk to you after you stood me and Mia up?”

“Listen-“

“There’s not an excuse you can give me that’s valid Kylian. You promised me you’d be there. I kept looking out for you, the whole ceremony, even after it was over, we lingered around the venue for so long my parents and Elliot almost missed their flight back home. Of course I didn’t tell them why I wanted to wait around, they still think you’re the best thing that’s happened to them besides their own kids.”

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I got on the plane to come to you, I swear-“

“So you were in Marseille yesterday?”

“Yes, I was on my way to-“

“Funny you were in Marseille yesterday.”

“Y/N-“

“Because I was in Marseille yesterday, and this morning too actually, up until about hmmm, 4 hours ago? But I didn’t see you. At all.”

“Y/N-“

“You’re so-“

“Y/N STOP TALKING!” He suddenly yelled, your sentence cut off midway by his outburst. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this many frown lines across his forehead before, he must be really pissed. That makes two of you.

“Don’t raise your voice at me.”

“Well I don’t have a choice if that’s the only way to get you to fucking listen.”

“I don’t have to listen to anything you have to say.”

“You know what? You always do this. You always assume you know what I’m going to say, or how I feel so you just cut me off before I get a chance to even explain myself.”

“Because I know you’re going to come out with some bullshit Kylian! Always you and your empty fucking promises, I’m so over it. But sure, prove me wrong. Go on, explain yourself then.”

You raised your arms as if to say he has the floor to speak. He clenched his jaw, his lips in a tight line as the both of you stared at each other, a million and one emotions swirling around you. Anger, pain, disappointment, sadness. If looks could kill, the both of you would be simultaneously 6 feet under.

“I swear I didn’t mean to miss your graduation Y/N, I really wanted to be there. I literally got to the airport and I, I bumped into Renee. I swear it was unplanned, I had no idea she was going to be there, and we just started talking and she had a lot she wanted to say to me, and honestly I didn’t realise how long we were together for, I swear it wasn’t my intention to miss your ceremony.”

“So what was so important that you had to talk about there in that moment, for such a long time-“

“She wanted to get back together.”

“You broke up?” This was news to you, as far as you were concerned, Kylian was still dating her, you hadn’t seen anything in the tabloids about them breaking up.

“Yeah. A couple of months ago.”

“So you’re back together now? For what, the 5th time?”

“It’s complicated Y/N. I love her.”

A sharp but fleeting pain travelled across your chest and it took everything in you not to physically keel over. It was laughable, how easy it was for one person to completely lose feelings they claim to have had and fall in love with someone else, while the other couldn’t even utter the words to another, whether they meant it or not. Because the pent up feelings were still there, choking you, gripping your heart tight and rendering you useless, incapable of loving anyone else, but him. You felt like dying, maybe it would hurt less than living in this sick and twisted reality, this constant loop of being reminded he’s never going to love you the way you love him.

“Yeah, Kylian, I can tell. Because she clearly means more to you than I do. I told you about this weeks in advance, you gave me your word yet when something better comes along you’re quick to just brush me under the rug like you always do.”

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention. I didn’t even know how to talk to you when I realised I’d missed the ceremony, I didn’t think you’d want me there-“

“Of course I’d want you there, you fucking idiot, you’re my best friend. Why else would I ask you personally to come?

“I knew you’d at least be with your family, Mia, Marco.” He said Marco’s name with such disdain you almost laughed at the audacity he had to seem irked by the mere mention of your ex-boyfriend when he had a girlfriend of his own.

“Marco is in Japan. We broke up. For good.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“Why would you? You don’t talk to me about Renee, I don’t talk to you about Marco. Some kind of unspoken rule right?”

There was a silence between you before he spoke.

“I’m sorry. I know you loved him.” For someone who’d been in your life for almost two decades, perhaps Kylian really didn’t know you as well as you thought he did. Or maybe you were so good at pretending you’d managed to convince everyone but yourself you’d been in love with Marco.

“Anyways Ky, I think you’ve done all your explaining. You can leave.”

He rounded the kitchen island, stepping closer to you so he could take your hand that wasn’t holding the drink, gripping it softly in his.

“Y/N, I really am sorry. Please, l don’t want us to start your move to Paris on a bad note. You have no idea how happy I am that you're finally here to stay. Let me take you out tomorrow. Just me and you, a celebratory dinner. On me. Heck I’ll even take you shopping, any store you like, I’ll carry all the bags and not complain one bit.”

A soft giggle left your lips and you cursed yourself for letting him get away with his shit so easily.

“Please, I’m sorry gummy. It won’t happen again. Let me make it up to you.”

“You better bring your shiniest Amex card tomorrow when you pick me up.”

“It’s a date.” He smiled, and you tried not to think too deeply into what he’d just said.

Just then, you heard the front door close, Mia appearing in the doorway with several shopping bags, singing to herself. She noticed you and Kylian stood in the middle of the kitchen, your hand in his and she rolled her eyes, knowing you had definitely let him off easy. Luckily for you, she wasn’t about to do that. She smiled sweetly, before reaching into one of the bags and pulling out an orange. It happened so quickly, you didn’t not anticipate the orange leaving Mia’s hand with such force, heading straight for Kylian’s head. He managed to duck at the last second, the fruit finding the wall behind him instead of his skull.

“Mia what the hell?!” He shouted.

“Fucking dickhead. You’re lucky that wasn’t a knife.”

/———-/

Part 4 finally 😭😭 just two more parts to go! Sorry it took so long please forgive me 🤞🏿 and it may seem like it’s going round in circles but they gotta do this stupid arguing and not talking about their feelings 5 times before they finally get their shit together so we’re getting close to the happy ending, very soon though it’s deffo going to get very messy before it gets better 😵‍💫 I hope y’all like it <3 (also it’s half 3 in the morning and I haven’t edited this entirely so I’m super sorry for any mistakes 🙏🏿)

Also I know the French don’t do graduations (shame if you ask me, I loved my grad) but I had to have one to fit the story 🤭

And I’m sorry for making y’all wait, im back at work and it’s hard to find the time to write (I had a bit of writers block) and also I find it hard to write super short pieces so it does take me a while to write so I’m super grateful to y’all for being so kind and patient 🥺🫶🏿

LINK TO MAIN POST

TAGLIST

@lululuvsfooty @nayeoniie @cherimbp @karotland @m4k444 @cixstar @lovefks

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe fluff #kylian mbappe x reader #mbappe x reader #kylian mbappe fic #kylian mbappe x you #mbappe fic #football fanfic #footballer x reader #kylian mbappé #kylian mbappe imagine #kylian imagines #kylian x reader #mbappe fanfic #mbappe #mbappe imagine #mbappé #football imagine

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adeepdive · 1 month

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A Deep Dive

In the ever-evolving landscape of digital content, Tumblr has carved out a unique niche as a haven for creatives. Among the myriad of blogs that populate this platform, those focused on aesthetic photography and visual arts have emerged as some of the most popular and influential. These blogs are not only visually captivating but also serve as powerful tools for personal expression, community building, and even brand development. This article explores the rise of aesthetic photography and visual arts on Tumblr, offering insights into what makes these blogs so compelling and how they contribute to the broader digital ecosystem.

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#aesthetic #bollywood #animals #celebrities #books & libraries #comics #autos #design #beauty #art #lol #fashion #my art #diy #food #landscape

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sgiandubh · 1 year

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Olá boa noite! Enquanto assistimos à nova temporada, podemos mais ou menos estimar quando algumas cenas foram filmadas. Na época, vimos histórias de diferentes atores + fãs ocasionais no local. Agora, conforme os episódios vão ao ar, a própria Starz lança material do BTS. Por que você acha que isso é feito de forma diferente da temporada anterior? Quando a temporada foi ao ar, todos já sabiam que a atriz tinha um filho... Por que não pudemos ter vislumbres post facto de sua gestação?

Translation is mine, Anon, to give you a wider audience:

"Hi, good evening. As we are watching the new season, we can more or less estimate when they shot some of the scenes. At that time (of shooting), we saw stories from various actors and from fans occasionally being on set. Now, as episodes are aired, it is Starz that releases all the BTS stuff. Why do you think this is done in a different way, compared to last season? When that season aired, we all knew already the actress had a son... Why can't we get any post factum glimpses of her pregnancy?"

Hi Anon, and I hope you don't mind me answering in English (my Portuguese is quite good, but it wouldn't be polite to our other readers).

May I remind you that Season 7 was at least partially shot while some sort of variable lockdown measures were still enforced, if memory serves. Also, if I remember well, they did hire a COVID monitoring specialist on set, to perform tests and ensure that all protective measures were respected. So, less sightings, less BTS and a general atmosphere of secrecy, as one of the extras mentioned quite recently.

As for your second question, we also know S&C are very private people and I think she wanted to keep it quietly undercover. So be it, Anon. She has her reasons and this did not surprise me. At all. Thank you for dropping by.

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mediaheights · 10 months

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ringio · 3 months

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The Leper King

Chapter 3 - Stained Silk ⚜️👑💖

Author's foreword: English is not my native language, so my humble skills were not sufficient to translate this fanfic and share it with a wider audience. However, the current accessibility of AI has somewhat simplified the task and solved the problem. Of course, I made minor adjustments to the AI-generated version to enhance a natural, organic flow. Hopefully, the result is not much worse than the original. I decided to start with the 3rd chapter because it is one of the most sensual and touching parts of the story, allowing readers to grasp the general mood and main intrigue without any spoilers. If it receives a positive feedback, I will continue with the translation.

Main characters: Baudouin (Baldwin IV), the young leper king-knight of Jerusalem in the late 11th century. I chose to spell his name as French (Baudouin) as it seems more accurate according to history. Elin is a foreign healer and herbalist of royal (tsar) origin, a young, educated, and beautiful girl.

*****

The alluring aromas of various meat and vegetable dishes, pastries, and spices wafted through the air. The rapid footsteps of the staff, the clinking of dishes, the rustling of clothing, and other sounds of fussy activity were continuously heard from the hall. Harmonious, pleasant music created a festive mood. Something magical and surreal was hidden in all this commotion. Despite the busy preparations, the atmosphere in the castle was more cozy and welcoming, rather than solemn.

"It's just a meeting of local feudal lords," said one of the court ladies helping Elin with her attire. "No foreigners this time. Usually, we have more visitors. Probably the king is not feeling well and doesn't want outlanders gossiping about his illness, so he has reduced the number of guests."

"Our king is in much better shape than some of the current foreign rulers, both physically and intellectually," objected Elin to her assistant. "I'm sure he has no reason to limit the reception of guests. I think the format of today's event simply doesn't involve the arrival of foreigners."

Sensing the obvious disappointment in Elin's tone, the court lady quickly changed the subject to women's trinkets, offering some amazing jewelry sets. The girl chose small dangling earrings with chrysolite, which perfectly matched her magnificent dress made of light silk embroidered with silver threads. Loose curls were held back with an elegant tiara entwined with fragrant jasmine branches. The festive decoration emphasized Elin's natural beauty and at the same time created the image of a mythical fairy.

The healer was able to see her king only in the evening, when the arriving guests had gathered in the hall around a long table. Baudouin looked stunning. Nothing about him revealed a serious illness. Even the mask and gloves, designed to hide the wounds inflicted by the disease, seemed like a successful addition to his masculine, knightly appearance. His calm gait and open demeanor only enhanced the overall favorable impression. It's no wonder that the monarch completely captivated the audience's attention, and even the most delicious food and drinks could barely distract the guests from His Majesty.

Approaching Elin, the young man reached out his hand to escort her to the table. Politely bowing, the beauty touched his palm and followed him. But suddenly, feeling a sharp jerk downwards, the girl saw that Baudouin fell to one knee, his mask fell off and rolled on the floor, exposing his disfigured face. Holding the king by the elbow and shielding him with her long flowing hair, Elin fearfully called out to the knights.

"Everything is fine, my dear. I just stumbled on the uneven flooring. I'm much more accustomed to being in the saddle than parading here on Persian carpets," he hastened to reassure the beauty.

Several strong men rushed to help their patron. The guests gasped in amazement and began to whisper. Within a couple of seconds, nothing prevented them from admiring the monarch again. It seemed that Baudouin was not at all embarrassed by the awkward incident. As usual, he radiated charismatic confidence and composure.

It was the first time Elin had seen the real face of the king. The girl knew that Baudouin was not ashamed of his flaws and could easily do without a mask among his close associates, who were accustomed to his illness. However, the fact that the young king appeared in such a vulnerable state in front of a wide audience was quite pitiful. Leprosy had not yet destroyed his natural attractiveness. Nevertheless, the lesions on his skin turned out to be more significant than the healer had expected, and this especially upset her. Elin guessed that the cause of the fall was not a fold or any unevenness on the carpet, but his injured feet.

On the same night, right after the revel, she persuaded the king to allow her to thoroughly examine him. As usual, Baudouin resisted and tried to find a reason to evade.

"How can I heal you if I don't see the whole picture?!" the girl exclaimed, pacing the room and actively gesticulating. "It's just ridiculous! A doctor must have access to their patient to observe even the slightest changes in their condition."

The healer was so engrossed in her own monologue that she even forgot about the presence of the monarch for a while.

"Elin," the young man decisively interrupted her and took off his ceremonial mantle, and then his tunic...

The beauty froze. Inside her, it felt as if everything had shrunk, and she dared not say a word anymore. Biting her lip, the healer quietly approached Baudouin. Suspicions were confirmed: the king had suffered enough physically, and therefore some movements were difficult for him.

Concentrating on studying the lesions, the girl gently touched some areas of his skin. Baudouin caught every movement, trying to guess whether this sight disgusted her. At some point, the young man stopped the girl, pressing her palm to his chest. He looked at Elin in confusion. Understanding Baudouin's discomfort, the beauty gently kissed his injured hand and then continued her work. This sweet and sincere gesture immediately brought inner relief to the king.

Upon returning to her room, Elin discovered that her wonderful dress had been quite stained due to the procedures she had performed. Burying her face in the blood-stained fabric, the beauty burst into tears. "A treasure in my hands... so strong and yet so fragile. No, I won't give up. We will definitely defeat this disease!" she decided.

The original text was translated using ChatGPT. Images: Book cover character: the movie 'Kingdom of Heaven' Photo of the carpet: unsplash.com

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justforbooks · 5 months

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César Aira

He has published more than 100 novels, gives his work away, and his surrealist books have a massive cult following. Now Argentina’s favourite rule-breaker is tipped for the Nobel prize

Afew years ago when Patti Smith played at a cultural festival in Denmark, she told the crowd that she was happy to be playing in the presence of one of her favourite authors. It was said she had only agreed to play the festival because the author, César Aira, would be in the audience. Aira, although celebrated in his home country, Argentina, was little known outside Latin America until he was discovered in 2002 by the Berlin-based literary agent Michael Gaeb, who was enchanted by his unconventional, surrealist books, which shift atmosphere, and even genre, from one page to another.

At first it proved difficult to sell Aira’s novels to a wider audience. “The fundamental problem when promoting César’s work is that the editor always asks: ‘What is the novel about?’” Gaeb told me. “And in the case of César, it’s not easy to answer that question.”

Gaeb has since sold Aira’s books in 37 languages. At the start of October last year, the English betting site Nicer Odds named Aira as a favourite for the Nobel prize in literature, slightly ahead of candidates such as Haruki Murakami and Salman Rushdie, who have appeared more regularly on such lists.

“I already know that every October, until my death, I’m going to have to put up with that.” Said by any other writer, this would come across as a humble brag. But Aira doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who appreciates disrupting events. “Sometimes the candidacy is useful to me,” he said, laughing. “For instance, now we live in a more luxurious apartment, one a little beyond my circumstances. And they rent to me because they see that I am a candidate for the Nobel.”

His apartment is located just five blocks from his office, which in its turn was the house where he lived for more than 40 years with his two children and his wife, Liliana Ponce, a poet and a scholar of Japanese literature. The recent move took place because Ponce has an illness that affects her mobility, and the new building has an elevator.

Aira, who does not speak to the local press and whose interviews with foreign media are usually short and conducted via email, rarely leaves Flores, a lower-middle-class neighbourhood that’s best known today as a textile hub for the clothing stores in wealthier areas of the city. Early in his career, Aira developed a method called the fuga hacia adelante (something like “forward flight”), which consists of writing a few hours a day and never looking back to edit until he reaches the end of a tale. “I revise much more than I did before,” casually demystifying what is perhaps the fact most repeated about his work. “I think that I’ve become more demanding. Or else I’m writing worse than before.”

The novels were – and sometimes still are – written in neighbourhood bars, cafes and even fast-food joints, such as McDonald’s or Pumper Nic, a now-extinct Buenos Aires chain. “It began when my children were small,” he said. “If I had a bit of time, I escaped, and I went to write. But after the pandemic, the bars and cafes started to fill up a lot. And there’s the issue of the telephones. If at a neighbouring table two people are conversing, it’s possible to ignore them. But if there’s just one person talking on the phone, it’s as if they’re speaking with you. It’s horrible!”

Aira was born in Coronel Pringles, in a small town in the south of the province, 300 miles from the capital. “I was thinking just now of my first memories of childhood because they are of the revolution of 1955,” he said – the year Juan Perón was removed from power by a coup for the first time. There was only one cinema, and television had not yet caught on. But the town had two well-stocked public libraries. “When I was still a teenager, I was already reading Joyce, Proust and Kafka,” Aira said. His precocity was also stimulated by an amateur public education in which classes were taught not by specialised professors but by volunteers with gigantic private collections of books. There were doctors who taught philosophy classes (“in those days, doctors were humanists”) and lawyers who taught history. “I didn’t have that kind of bureaucratic education where the teacher knows more,” he said. “It was something a lot freer.”

When he was about 14 years old, Aira met Arturo Carrera, a friend who, like him, would become a nationally recognised writer. Aira dedicated himself to prose; Carrera, poetry. The friends tried to stay up to date with the literary world by getting hold of magazines that were based in the capital. One of those publications, Testigo (Witness), held a contest. Carrera sent a few poems, and Aira sent a story. They both came out winners.

At the time, the majority of promising secondary school students in Coronel Pringles continued their university studies in Bahía Blanca, a city 75 miles away. “Law was the only graduate course they didn’t have,” Aira said. He told his parents he was interested in a law degree and moved to the capital. “I wanted to come for the art galleries, the cinemas,” he said. For two years, he studied law at the University of Buenos Aires, and then he transferred to the department of literature.

Testigo folded before it could publish Aira’s winning story. But one of the judges of the award, the novelist Abelardo Arias, wrote to congratulate him. Aira and Arias began a correspondence, and soon Aira showed Arias a manuscript. Arias loved it and passed it on to the publisher Galerna, which agreed to print it.

“It was a big thing, even more so for a young person of that age,” Aira said.

One day, walking aimlessly through the streets of the city with a friend, he came across a building he knew. “Here, in this building, an editor wants to publish a novel of mine,” he told her. “Let’s go up.” When he arrived, he asked to speak with the person responsible for his book. Then he asked for the manuscript back: “I don’t want to publish it any more.” The editor was astonished.

I asked Aira why he’d acted like that. “Just because,” he said. He shrugged and laughed. “I wanted to impress her.”

To write all day long without revising until you reach the end of a story produces an obscene quantity of books. Nobody I met in Buenos Aires ventured to pin down exactly how many volumes Aira has published. César Aira, un catálogo (César Aira: A Catalogue), organised by the writer and lawyer Ricardo Strafacce, is the most notable effort to itemise his work. Launched in 2018 with the aim of helping the uninitiated, the catalogue reprints one page from each of Aira’s books. The catalogue was commissioned by his publisher in part to commemorate his 100th book (Aira likes round numbers), but in the time the catalogue took to reach the printer, Aira had already written two more.

When I sat with Strafacce in the Varela-Varelita bar in Buenos Aires at the end of a November afternoon, he was still indignant with the catalogue’s publisher, who he said had made changes without telling him. For instance, the publisher had edited the date of publication for the Aira story El hornero (The Ovenbird). “I’m furious,” he said. “You can talk to [the editor]. I don’t give a shit.” He complained about another small modification: in the biographical information for one of the titles, to his mention of Madrid, the editor had added “Spain”. In Strafacce’s eyes, the detail made him seem like an idiot, a “boludo”.

“Don’t writers get worked up about the most incredible minutiae?” said Francisco Garamona, the editor in question. With a cigarette in one hand and a glass of soda in the other, he explained that he’d merely used the version of El hornero that Aira himself had authorised, rather than the one in circulation, which was pirated. He was sitting on a sofa in La Internacional Argentina, his bookshop, where he also operates his publishing house, Mansalva. Today, Mansalva probably publishes the most titles by Aira. “There he is, and here are more, here’s another, and here,” Garamona said as he counted the shelves in the bookshop. “One, two, three … seven. Seven niches of just Aira.”

In a way, the decor reflected Garamona’s multifaceted career; in addition to being an editor and a bookshop owner, he is a musician, a film-maker, a poet and the former owner of an art gallery. Today he is also one of two editors whom Aira defined for me as “official”. The other is Damián Ríos, from the publisher Blatt & Ríos.

The honour of “official” editors must inspire some pride in Ríos and Garamona, because Aira has worked with more than a few. His extensive body of work is decentralised in dozens of editorial houses, the vast majority of them tiny, which makes him an author at once ubiquitous and elusive. In this context, it’s not difficult to understand how a controversy like the one with El hornero came about. Aira must be one of the few writers in the world, maybe the only one, to sell 25,000 copies of one title and at the same time launch other titles in much smaller print runs. He has never charged royalties or advances for the small publishing houses in Argentina. “That was the agreement I made with Michael [Gaeb],” Aira said. “I don’t meddle with the world. And he doesn’t meddle with Argentina. In Argentina, everything is free.”

Aira’s strong cultural presence today conceals the stuttering start of his career. “For many years, this was the only proof I was a writer,” he said, showing a handful of yellowing pages, the nucleus of a book without a cover. His voice shook, this time, emotion had truly moved him. In his hands was a copy of Moreira, considered by some to be his first published novel. In the background, an atmospheric combination of dissonant chords and piano notes faded away. “I only listen to Morton Feldman these days,” Aira said. He added that he’d recently made an exception to listen to Now and Then, a “new” song by the Beatles completed thanks to help from artificial intelligence.

After going up to the office of the publishing house Galerna in 1969, in that half-impulsive gesture to ask for his manuscript back, some years went by before Aira had a chance to publish again. Moreira was supposed to come out in 1975, but was delayed. The editor of the book was Aira’s friend Horacio Achával, owner of the publishing house Achával Solo. In 1976, there was another military coup in Argentina. “Horacio was a political militant and had to go away,” Aira said. “He took off. He went to Uruguay.” The copies of Moreira, still without a cover, were left stranded in a warehouse. Years later, Achával returned to the country and finalised the cover. The book was officially launched in December 1981, just weeks after Ema, la cautiva (Ema, the Captive), which came out from another publishing house in November 1981 and today disputes with Moreira the title of Aira’s official debut.

Strafacce told a different story. “Moreira was printed in June 1975,” he said. “The money ran out, and there wasn’t enough to print the cover because in the same month, there was a financial crisis and a bank run here in Argentina.”

Aira published a few books in the 80s, but according to Sandra Contreras, who founded a small publishing house that published him throughout the 90s and 2000s, it was not until 1990’s Los fantasmas (Ghosts) that he accelerated his production. At the time, she said, he also spoke more explicitly of a new phase, “the beginning of the regular publication of his novelas and novelitas”. Aira was the first author to be published not only by Contreras’s publishing house but also by Mansalva and Blatt & Ríos in the early 00s.

In the 90s, small publishers like these were rare. Garamona said that this began to change in 2001, when after almost a decade of one-to-one parity between the Argentine peso and the US dollar, the local economy went through one of the worst recessions in Latin American history. Importing books became expensive. And so, after spending years favouring authors from Spain, local bookshop owners finally had eyes for Argentine literature.

When Gaeb first encountered Aira’s work in Guadalajara, in 2002, Aira had already begun to occupy his paradoxical central position at the margins of the culture. “He is a writer who exists in different fields, at different levels,” the fiction writer and critic Alan Pauls says, from his Berlin study, in a conversation over Zoom. “On the one hand, he has quite a lot of popularity. And on the other, he remains a niche writer, a cult writer. We still think of him as a writer of the avant garde, a manufacturer of very sophisticated objects. He’s someone who occupies the centre to his regret, not because he looked for it.”

To get hold of Moreira today isn’t easy – on the site Mercado Libre Argentina, in mid-December, there was a copy going for about $1,200 (£950). On the cover that for years remained unfinished, there is a monstrous, saturnine figure riding a yellow horse. Beneath the image, the first sentence of the novel prominently appears: Un día, de madrugada, por las lomas inmóviles del Pensamiento bajaba montado en potro amarillo un horrible gaucho (“One day at dawn, through the unmoving hills of Thought, mounted upon a yellow colt, there descended a horrible gaucho”).

In Spanish, El Pensamiento can refer to both the abstract noun, and the village close to where Aira was born and spent his childhood. The phrase gives a taste of the kind of mixture harboured within the novel. Evoking Juan Moreira, a folkloric knife-fighting hero of the Argentine Pampas, the book narrates a gaucho-esque pantomime, shot through with philosophical allusions and images from dreams. In Moreira, one can already recognise the multifaceted and frenetically imaginative style for which Aira would later be known. But the Airean machine still seems to just be getting started: there is a heavy self-consciousness that is absent from the books that follow. In these later works, his prose is limpid and inviting. Here is the start of El mago (The Magician), published almost exactly 20 years after Moreira:

In March this year, the Argentine magician Hans Chans (his real name was Pedro María Gregorini) participated in a convention of illusionists in Panamá; the event, just as the invitation and promotional leaflet described, was a regional meeting of prestigious professionals, a preparation for the great world congress the following year, which was celebrated every 10 years and this time would take place in Hong Kong. The previous one had been in Chicago, and he had not gone. Now he planned not only to participate, but also to establish himself as Best Magician in the World. The idea was not crazy or megalomaniacal. It had a foundation as reasonable as it was curious: Hans Chans was a genuine magician.

Aira takes this magical premise seriously, drawing from the dilemma a tale both comic and – in its exploration of the complex relations between being and seeming – densely philosophical. Hans Chans has the gift to be an illusionist, but not the vocation. He is too self-indulgent to dedicate himself to the profession. The narrator writes: “Maybe, paradoxically, the advantage he had played against him and condemned him to mediocrity.” Without patience for the theatre of magic, Chans limits himself to drawing handkerchiefs from wine glasses, and things of that sort.

It would not be unfair to read El mago as an allegory for the career of Aira himself: of someone who has the gift of writing but for whom the most deeply rooted conventions of the profession seem meaningless. Just like Hans Chans, the author is aware of his gift. Aira is affable and courteous, but he is far from being modest. (Modesty, faked or not, is another convention of the profession.) About the manuscript he asked to take back from Galerna in 1969, he said: “It was better than anything else that was published at the time.”

He has never been afraid to throw darts at other writers. When we spoke, he was disdainful of Roberto Bolaño, saying he had read only one novel by the Chilean author, which he found “terrible”. Aira also said that the great Argentine novelist Juan José Saer had once warmed to him, when he was young and starting out, but then became envious when Aira started getting more attention. In 1981, shortly before Moreira was finally published, Aira wrote an essay titled Novela argentina: nada más que una idea (The Argentine Novel: Nothing But an Idea), which mounts a general attack on literature of the period. The essay begins:

The current Argentine novel, beyond a doubt, is a stunted, ill-fated species. In general terms, what defines a poor novelistic product is the poor use, crude and opportunistic, of the available mythical-social material. In other words, the meanings that dictate how a society lives at a given historical moment. But the literary transposition of a reality demands the existence of a very exact passion: that of literature. And a rapid, provisional survey, not at all exhaustive, of Argentine novelists reveals that they have not read deeply, and show a complete absence of that passion along with its epiphenomenon, talent.

Aira, who had not even published a novel at that time, sticks his scalpel swiftly and mercilessly into a series of authors, most of whom have been more or less forgotten. The essay, though, is remembered these days for Aira’s attack on Ricardo Piglia, who, until his death in 2017, was a kind of public rival to Aira, at least in terms of the very different literary forms they espoused.

Pauls linked Aira’s attacks at the start of his career to his ambition to reconfigure the Argentine novel. “When he emerges in the literary environment, he knows perfectly well the writers he has to tussle with,” he said. For Pauls, Aira disturbed the paradigm of a certain progressive Argentinian literature, a literature of the left, very masculine and politically committed. “Something that literary school could not stand, for example, was a certain kind of work with frivolity, with the banal, with the superficial,” Pauls said.

Aira’s style crystallised very early on. Even if Moreira is not at the level of his next books, there is no clear sense of progression in Aira’s trajectory. Maybe for that reason, none of the readers could point to a favourite work.

Aira said he will have two new novelitas ready soon. He said he plans to give one to Ríos and the other to Garamona. “And now I’ve been thinking, because one of them came out better than the other, more imaginative – who will I give that one to?” he said, laughing.

Aira rejects great theorising about his decision to give away books free or publish the majority with small publishing houses. “His form of publishing is part of his poetics, his resistance to editorial capitalism, his punk attitude,” Gaeb said.

Contreras classified the hyperproduction of little books for small publishers as an aesthetic decision. “Something like: it’s enough for a tale to be imagined to make it necessary to publish,” she said. “There is also a fascination for the book as a unique object.”

Pauls said he interprets this decision as an avant garde way of thinking: “If the kind of literature I make is never going to have hundreds of thousands of readers, what happens if I inundate the market with books?”

When Aira was asked if he was edited nowadays, first he said that “nobody revises anything”. Then he conceded that Ríos sometimes makes one comment or another. Ríos corroborated this, but found it hard to define the exact nature of his comments, and he made it clear that they weren’t about anything structural. Contreras said that in her day, she at most corrected the odd typo.

Garamona laughed at the notion of editing or revising a text by Aira. “He has written since he was a teenager without stopping, and has such a mastery of form and content that in the end there isn’t much left to do,” he said. “You just have to pick it up, make a good cover with a pretty design, correct two or three errata.”

Los hombrecitos con sobretodo (The Little Men in Overcoats) is the title of the novel Aira defined as the most imaginative of the two he recently finished. “What happens is that here in the neighbourhood, two blocks away, where the fire station is located, men pop out at night,” he said. “At midnight they come popping out of the ceiling. Little men suddenly appear like that, really tiny men, they all wear overcoats. And at night, I go and watch them.”

He spoke as if he were beginning a fairytale. The low, tremulous voice transiting between fine irony and rapture; the sense of humour; the erudition; the sedentary life in a dark house in the neighbourhood where he’d lived for decades, from which he generates cosmopolitan, compact stories full of metafictional layers – all of it reminds us a bit of Jorge Luis Borges.

For an Argentinian, to say a great local writer seems like or is influenced by Borges must sound absurdly lazy. But both authors start their brief, densely packed books with literary anecdotes or memories written in crisp prose. In the works of both, there are frequent essayistic digressions. Both persistently turn to the literary technique of ekphrasis. There are metafictional and metaliterary games, references to other works.

The main difference is perhaps in the intensity and direction of the narrative swerves, and Aira’s greater comfort with pop culture and genre literature. Whereas a story by Borges might take up a lost 19th-century Persian manuscript, a novel by Aira might locate it behind the balcony of a McDonald’s in Flores, pored over by an adolescent with an acne problem.

Borges was almost infantile in his complete dedication as a reader, distant from the mundane hustle and bustle of the world. Nobody had anything substantial to say about Aira’s private life either. “He likes to drink coffee and talk about literature,” Ríos said. Gaeb said that Aira sometimes seems to get along better with children. (In fact, the person about whom Aira spoke with the greatest passion, albeit briefly, was Arturito, his only grandson.)

Strafacce, his friend for more than 20 years, said he found it easier to explain what Aira doesn’t talk about. “We’re used to not speaking about politics because I’m Trotskyist,” he said. “And César is not.”

It was the week of the second round of the presidential election. A few days later, the Peronist Sergio Massa, a member of the centre-left governing coalition at the time, would be defeated by the far-right Javier Milei. “Milei is worse than Bolsonaro,” said Aira, in his only comment about politics.

That day, before going to the cafe, Aira passed through the Museo Barrio de Flores. Earlier, he had been irritated at a package from one of his foreign publishers: a box containing copies of one of his novels in Dutch translation. “They keep sending me those here,” he complained, as if sending books to the author himself were a kind of gaffe. Aira handles books with the avidity of a collector. He was mesmerised for a good while that afternoon by an edition of the French author Raymond Roussel, one of his surrealist idols, and he showed us a little purple box the size of a pack of cigarettes: a tiny special edition the Biblioteca Nacional had made of El ilustre mago (The Famous Magician), another novel of his. But for some reason, he wanted to rid himself of the box with the Dutch edition.

The Museo Barrio de Flores does exactly what its name suggests, displaying all kinds of memorabilia – old calculators and radios, paintings, newspaper clippings, political propaganda – related in some way to famous inhabitants of the neighbourhood. The definition of “famous” is broad, ranging from Perón – who lived there with his first wife – to the two preteen nieces of the museum’s director, who created a children’s library during the pandemic and appeared on the front page of the newspaper Clarín. Aira seemed at ease there. His name occupies one of the steps on the staircase by the front door. On the step above is the name of the great writer Roberto Arlt; on the one below, an advertisement for a real-estate broker.

Aira left the box of books with an employee and continued through the museum. At one point he dwelt on a framed letter written by Pope Francis, another former inhabitant of the neighbourhood. “Did you see how pretty the pope’s handwriting is? They don’t teach that in school any more, no.” He went to another room, where there was a showcase with some of Aira’s books.

When he opened the door, there was a group of ladies sitting around a big table. A class was in session. They all smiled pleasantly, focusing their attention on the author. Only the instructor of the course seemed to be younger than 65.

“What is the name of the little plane that flies near the ground?” one of the ladies asked.

“The what?” said Aira.

“The little plane,” the lady repeated, with a certain impatience, lowering her open palm toward the floor. “The one that flies near the ground.”

For a while, everyone stared at Aira, waiting for an answer. “An unexpected question,” joked the instructor awkwardly.

Aira shrugged, and we went to the corner to look at his showcase.

✔ This is an edited version of César Aira’s Magic, published in the Dial. The article originally appeared in the Brazilian magazine Piauí

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earlgreytea68 · 1 year

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someone posted the new full text interview here tumblr(.)com/nomaptomyowntreasure/730092560973971456/full-rock-sound-issue-300-photos-and-interview they sound so happy :)

THANK YOU for pointing me to this!!!!

Awwww, they really do sound so very happy. I love Patrick saying he's making new memories with the Folie songs, that's just so lovely. I'm also fascinated by what Pete says the song So Much (for) Stardust is about hahahaha because I'm just like, ....what??? But I also kind of get it lol. There is something really atmospheric about SMFS that does feel different from the usual FOB song, and feels even more cinematic than their other stuff, and their other stuff is, as Pete says, always kind of cinematic. But it's always struck me as such a real punctuation mark at the end of the album, and I'm not even sure what kind of punctuation mark. (Aside, but I grew up on the "Eddie and the Cruisers" soundtrack, and it ends with this really moody tour de force song that's a departure from everything that came before and feels like it's painting the way forward and has a really distinctive piano part to it, and anyway, SMFS the song always makes me think of "Season in Hell.")

Also, this made me think how Patrick wrote the song before they knew what the album was going to be called, and it felt meaningful enough that they named the album after it, and it made me wonder if Pete wrote the original lyric with the (for) or if that got added later, Idk, I'm fascinated by the work the parenthetical does in the title, and they almost never bring it up!

I also love them talking about wanting to go deeper instead of wider, like, Idk, there's a real love there for being happy with the audience they have and going all-in with them, and also feeling free to mess up and it would be okay. See, it was a trust fall into us, the whole time. :-)

And Patrick trotting out a Downton Abbey reference for the British interview hahaha well done, Patrick, make sure you speak their language.

Also, Patrick getting upset Katy Perry named a song "Dark Horse" before him hahaha that was LITERALLY what finally motivated me to publish Swan Song, I was like, "Someone's going to hit it big with a boys in bands love story and I'll be upset if I never threw myself into the running."

(Also I am so happy We Didn't Start the Fire turned out to be such a huge radio hit for them. I knew it would be when it was released, and I was really shocked how nasty people were about it, and I shouldn't have been, because that always happens, but I'm glad they got to have the last word. I love Patrick saying, "We actually spent a lot of time on the lyrics," like, good.)

#fall out boy #fob

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lydiahosek · 9 months

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Reconnection

[My contribution to the @inklings-challenge Christmas challenge, and a follow-up to my 2022 story "Connection". Thank you for hosting and merry Christmas!]

“…Hi everyone. Merry Christmas! At least, it should be Christmas by the time you get this. Right now it’s November 15th.”

In fact, it was December 27th when Arlo Connors’ transmission reached his family back on Earth. The first days had been spent by the Connors with the vague concern for him that always regrew in the back of their minds between messages. In a consolatory sort of coincidence, though, it arrived smack in the middle of the annual Christmas party, and the entire extended family (minus two strep-stricken cousins at home in bed) gathered and hushed to hear his voice.

Ever the dutiful son/brother/grandson/nephew/cousin, he first addressed the high points of the last transmission he received from them. He wished Jessamine well in her audition for the role of Claire in her school’s production of String Bean Salad Summer, complimenting the snippet of “One Tiny Seed” she had sung into the receiver. Jessamine shifted in her seat – she had ended up in the ensemble and was still a little stung about it. He advised Aunt Sybil on the glitch with her smart microwave that she had described. Sybil had to be stopped from bustling off to the kitchen to try the repair at that very moment. He congratulated Tim and Nadine on their one-year anniversary. They smiled and clasped hands – he would be an uncle in five months and didn’t even know it yet.

“Everything up here is going mostly according to plan. The biology team says the plants aren’t doing as well as they thought – something to do with the artificial atmosphere. But Alonzo and the rest of the techs’ gadgets are all working fine. A few might even get adapted for commercial sale…We passed Pellonia about a month ago. For once everyone just dropped what they were doing and stared. It looked like a big, cloudy orange. I tried to take a picture, but you know. It’s not the same.

“The big news is that I actually took a spacewalk last week.” Arlo described the simple but urgent malfunction with the ship’s thruster that required his direct attention, the process of being dressed in the spacesuit, and the combination of wonder and dread that filled his heart as he moved along the edge of the ship, his tether to it, to humanity, no wider than a garden hose. Several of his audience hung on his every word with little technical understanding but agonized suspense, forgetting that the account itself was proof that his time outside the ship had ended without incident.

“It sounds silly, but I kept thinking of the first time I jumped off the diving board at Uncle Harold’s pool. The same sense of something exciting, somewhere new to explore, all by myself, but also having to be alert, not get lost in it or…disaster. I was talking about it with Val…that’s Valeria Munroe, if Mom still has the article with the group picture saved…What am I saying, of course she does.”

Hetta had already whipped out her comm pad, opened her “Saved” folder, and retrieved the news article announcing the mission with its accompanying photo of the entire crew. She hovered her cursor over a few different faces before a text box appeared over one with the title “Valeria Munroe” and a brief biography. She smiled to herself and nodded. “She’s pretty.”

“Mo-oomm!” Arlo’s siblings chorused on his behalf.

“Anyway, it got me thinking, and I know it’s really early to say this, but…this trip’s going to be my last.”

A wave of confused, dismayed whispers swept through the room, followed by one of harsh shushing.

“I…I had always thought about the things I had made that I was sending up there…up here…that something my hands had touched was going to be sent past other planets and asteroid fields and onto worlds I had never seen and couldn’t even imagine. And even more than the pay bump and the…I dunno, ‘prestige’ as opposed to being a ground guy, I wanted to see for myself what I was working for. And now I have. And it’s not like…I don’t regret it, but I know I can’t maintain it. Just like I couldn’t stay outside any longer than it took to do what I had to do. It was beautiful, I was closer to it all than I’ve ever been, but the connection back was so thin, just like…sorry, I…”

Here they heard an unintelligible voice in the background and Arlo’s, muffled, saying “No, I’m fine.”

Then his voice was clear again. “I, um…I really miss you. I guess, is the point. And the sky and the trees and…traffic and barbecue smoke and those crummy slushies from Burger Beanie.” He made a noise between a laugh and a shudder. “More than anyone else here does, or did, it seems. The ones who’ve made a career out of this. Maybe they were like this too their first time and just forgot, but…I don’t want to forget. So…yeah.”

Hetta could be heard sniffling off to the side. “Mom,” one of Arlo’s sisters cooed softly, placing a hand on her arm.

Arlo clapped his hands loudly. “So! Now that I know that, I am going to try to strengthen my connections to whoever and whatever I can up here. And you will hear about it all! Sorry this message is so short, but I promise the rest won’t be. ‘Cause when I’m back down there, for good…I don’t want to forget, either.”

He left them with a few more pleasantries, Christmas wishes, and words of love, and then the room was silent. It remained so for the better part of a minute, until Sybil offered to start slicing up the gingerbread cake.

Someone hit the “Play” icon on her comm pad, and peppy, harmonic voices resumed singing. Gradually new conversations began, and gradually they were about topics other than the absent son/brother/grandson/nephew/cousin/uncle-to-be. He would hear all about them, though, in about two months. The best gift he could get, as he and those below continued the wait till the mission's end for the best gift he could give.

#inklingschallenge #Christmas #family #homesickness #pregnancy mention #drowning mention #genre: space travel #story: complete #my writing #short story #science fiction #my ocs #reconnection

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