#deadbeat tv series

[bjfinn]

NOWHERE MAN

"Foul Play"/"Deadbeat" crossover

"Mockingbird" by Charlie & Inez Foxx, © 1963 Emi Unart Catalog Inc., performed by Carly Simon & James Taylor on the 1974 Elektra Records album "Hotcakes"

"I ... I asked him if he'd like to get together with me socially," Jimmy said. "He gave me his number."

"That's wonderful, Jimmy," Dr Bartholomew said. "Are you planning to call him?"

"I ... I don't know. I'd like to, but I'm not sure I know how to be friends with someone."

"It can be intimidating, certainly. But you have good social skills."

"When the cameras are rolling," he pointed out. "On set, I'm Jimmy F. Pop the talk show host. But I'm not sure how to be Jimmy Popovic the friend. I am a narcissist, after all."

"Yes, but you're a high-functioning narcissist. You have the skills to be someone's friend -- they're not that different from those needed to be a talk show host. It's just about engaging with the other person. Listening, reframing, reciprocating -- I've seen you do all of these."

Jimmy nodded. "Yes, but a talk show interview is different -- there's research done, a list of questions ... a timeline. It's more structured. More ... formal."

"The basic skills remain the same, nonetheless," the therapist reminded him. "It's simply a matter of ... tweaking them to suit the situation -- wouldn't you agree?''

"I can't find any flaws in what you're saying," Jimmy conceded. He paused, and asked, "Will you help me learn how to 'tweak' my skills, as you put it?"

"Of course," she said. "In fact, role-play is an integral part of your treatment, Jimmy. Would you like to begin now?"

Jimmy nodded hesitantly.

"Very good. Now, imagine that I'm Pac -- you're going to call me to ask if I want to ..." She paused, waiting for him to finish the sentence.

"I suggested that we meet for drinks," he said.

Dr Bartholomew nodded in approval. "Good choice -- a bar is casual, social but with the opportunity for private conversation." She tilted her head expectantly.

Jimmy's brows furrowed momentarily. "Ah, right -- I need to 'call' you, as it were." He mimed picking up a telephone receiver and dialling a number -- Dr Bartholomew noted that he'd chosen a landline rather than a cellphone. "Brringg, brringg," he said.

A small smile crossed the therapist's lips as she lifted an imaginary cellphone to her ear. "Hello?"

"Hello," Jimmy said. "Is this Kevin Pacalioglu? This is Jimmy Pop -- you were on my show the other day."

"Jimmy!" Dr Bartholomew said brightly. "How's it going, man? I was just thinking about you!"

Jimmy looked disconcerted for a moment at hearing such casual language from his psychiatrist, but he ploughed on. "Thank you -- that's very nice of you to say. I was wondering if you would be free to meet for drinks this evening?"

"Yeah, dude -- that sounds great! Where do you wanna go?"

"I'm not very familiar with Flatbush yet -- perhaps you can recommend a place?"

"Of course! How about Such-and-Such? It's got great vibes and good beer on tap."

"That would be very nice," Jimmy replied.

"Great! It's on the corner of ... This Street and That Avenue. Around eight?"

"I, uh ... yes, eight o'clock is good."

"Fantastic! I'll see you there, buddy!" And she put down the imaginary phone.

Jimmy gave her a tentative smile.

"That was ... a good first try," Dr Bartholomew told him. "May I suggest we do it again? And this time, try to be a bit less ... formal. Try to match the casualness of the other person."

After a second role-play, Dr Bartholomew nodded approvingly. "That's much better, Jimmy."

"It felt ... strange," he said.

"Of course -- it's something you're not accustomed to. But the more you practice, the easier it'll become. Shall we try again?"

*****

Jimmy sat on his bed, trying to psych himself up as he looked at the phone.

He wanted to call Pac, but the thought of ... socialising unnerved him. Dr Bartholomew had told him to be himself, but he didn't know who that was when there were no cameras around.

He got up and went into the bathroom. Placing both hands on the edge of the sink, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. "You can do this," he told himself. "It's just a phone call, and Pac gave you his number -- he clearly wants you to call him.

"That's true -- he did," he said, answering himself.

"The two of you will meet somewhere for a couple of drinks and some casual conversation -- you simply need to remember that it's not an interview. It's two people getting acquainted. Best case scenario, you become friends. Worst case, you don't. Either way, you will have learned something about interpersonal communication.

"I know what you're thinking -- what if you say something that repels him?

"What if I have another psychotic break?

"You're on medication for that," he reminded himself. "And Pac is aware of your ... issues. Some of them, at least. And Dr Bartholomew feels that you're ready for this, that it will be good for you.

"You're right, of course -- that's all true. But ... I don't know if I'm ready.

"Will you ever know?" he asked himself. "Does anyone ever know when they're ready? At some point you have to take a ... leap of faith. You have to believe."

He nodded at his reflection and pushed off from the sink, turned on his heel and returned to the bed. As he sat, he lifted the receiver and dialled Pac's number.

*****

Jimmy hung up the phone, a small smile playing on his lips. "I did it," he said quietly. He and Pac had arranged to get together at McGuffin's Saturday evening.

"You did," he answered himself. "You should be proud of yourself."

He furrowed his brows thoughtfully. "I am proud of myself," he said, nodding. "It wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be.

"Of course it wasn't. Now you simply need to remember what Dr Bartholomew said -- a social interaction isn't structured like an interview. You'll need to practise being spontaneous to build up your confidence.

"How do I do that?

"By practising alone, at first -- then, once you're comfortable, you can try it with other people. Mrs Márquez at the bodega, for example.

"All right," Jimmy said. He cleared his throat. "Hello, it's nice to see you. How have you been?

"You should practise in front of the mirror," he told himself. "You need to check that your body language is appropriate.

"Of course." He stood and went over to the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. He held out his hand, smiled warmly and tried again. "Hello, it's nice to see you. How have you been?" He mimed shaking hands with someone, and let his hand drop to his side.

"I've been well," he said. "And yourself?

"Things have been ... progressing." He stopped, at a loss. "What next?" he asked himself.

"Perhaps a comment about the bar."

He nodded. "This seems like a nice place -- do you come here often?

"Either he does or he doesn't ... yada yada yada ... talking about the bar ... quiet or noisy ... asks if I want something to drink.

"Yes, thank you -- that would be good.

"What'll you have?

"I'll have whatever you're having," he said. "You know what's good here."

He smiled, pleased with himself -- Dr Bartholomew had suggested that he let Pac take the lead in such matters.

"Two beers coming up! Here you are, Jimmy," he said, miming handing a glass to his reflection. He held the imaginary beer for a moment, wondering if it would be appropriate to make a toast.

"Leave the decision to Pac.

"Right." He mimed sipping from the glass, and then pretended to set it down. He sighed heavily -- small talk was exhausting. He wondered how long it would take before he and Pac could actually start getting to know one another.

"Remember what Dr Bartholomew said," he reminded himself. "It takes time and effort to form a friendship. Just ... what did she say? Go with the flow?"

Jimmy smiled at that -- the phrase reminded him of one of his favourite songs from when he was a child.

Mock- (yeah) -ing- (yeah) -bird (yeah)

Yeah (yeah)

Mockingbird, now everybody have you (have you heard?)

He's gonna buy (he's gonna buy) me a mockingbird

And if that (if that) mockingbird won't (bird won't) sing

He's gonna (he's gonna) buy me a diamond ring

And if that (if that) diamond ring won't shine

It's surely gonna break this heart of mine

And that's the reason why I keep on tellin' everybody

Sayin' (yeah, yeah) whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa whoa-oh

He'd started moving to the rhythm of the song, awkwardly at first, but it wasn't long before he abandoned himself to the 1974 Carly Simon/James Taylor hit, dancing around his apartment and singing loudly.

Hear me now and understand (and understand)

He's gonna find me some peace of (peace of) mind

And if that (if that) piece of mind won't (mind won't) stay

I'm gonna get myself a better way (a better way)

And if that (if that) better way ain't so

I'll ride with the tide and go with the flow

And that's why (yes, indeed oh) I keep on shoutin' in your ear

Saying (yeah, yeah) whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa, whoa-oh

He stopped suddenly -- what was he going to wear? He didn't have anything that would be appropriate for a neighbourhood bar.

"I'll have to go shopping tomorrow," he said disconsolately, sitting back down on the bed and putting his face in his hands. After a brief moment, he scrubbed his face roughly and stood up.

"I have to go shopping tomorrow," he said, his mouth set in a determined expression. He nodded curtly.

*****

Jimmy put the shopping bag on the kitchen table and smiled as he began pulling out the contents -- two plain black t-shirts, a grey zip-up hoodie, dark blue corduroy trousers and a pair of black sneakers. He hadn't worn clothes like that since ... well, since ever. Even as a child he'd preferred button shirts and chinos.

"This will be ... different," he said. "Change is good -- so they say, at least."

He stripped down to his skivvies and tried one of the t-shirts -- extra-large, it was neither too tight nor too loose. He then pulled on the cords -- he'd tried them on in the store, of course, but he wanted to see what the whole outfit would look like. The legs were too long -- he'd have to take them to the tailor's tomorrow -- but for now he just rolled them up. Then he put on the hoodie and sneakers, and looked at himself in the mirror.

"Hi there," he said. "I'm Jimmy Pop -- no. Hi there -- I'm Jimmy Popovic, regular guy." He raised his eyebrows bemusedly. "I think I'll have to work on it." He started to remove the hoodie, but then he stopped -- it was comfortable, and he should get used to wearing it before Saturday.

*****

Good afternoon, Jimmy," Dr Bartholomew said. "I must say -- this is definitely a change for you."

Jimmy nodded as he sat on the chair in front of her desk. "It is. I decided to buy a more ... appropriate outfit for tomorrow night." He looked at her, frowning slightly. "What do you think, Doctor?"

"I think that was a very good idea," she told him. "You should fit in quite nicely. What do you think about it?"

"I ... I'm not sure," he said. "It's strange to be dressed so casually. But these clothes are comfortable. I don't think I'd want to dress like this all the time, though."

"Of course not -- and no one is suggesting that you should. But it's good that you recognise the importance of dressing to suit the occasion."

"I'm glad you approve, Doctor." He shifted uncomfortably. "I'm still concerned about tomorrow evening, though -- what if Pac decides that he doesn't want to be friends with me after all? I'm not ... the most socially adept person. What if I say or do the wrong thing?"

"It's good that you have such concerns," she said, smiling. "It means that you have a vested interest in the outcome. But I think you really have nothing to worry about -- from what I saw from your interview with him, he seems like a genuinely nice person. And he no doubt knows what it's like to feel ... different."

"What do you mean?"

"Orphaned at a young age, being the 'fat kid', seeing ... ghosts -- all these things can lead to feelings of isolation."

"I suppose that's true," Jimmy nodded. "I hadn't considered that. I certainly understand what it was like to be the 'fat kid' -- I'm sure it's one of the reasons my father never showed me any real affection."

*****

"That sucks, man," Pac said. "Your own father?" He took a sip of his beer.

"He wasn't abusive," Jimmy told him. "But he never seemed to enjoy having me around." He sighed. "Most people don't -- not once they get to know me. I'm a narcissist, after all."

Pac frowned. "Yeah, you keep sayin' that -- but you don't seem like one to me."

"There are two kinds of narcissist," Jimmy explained. "Put simply, there's the grandiose narcissist, which is the kind most people think of -- they take pleasure in hurting others for their own benefit, and are objectively terrible people.

"And then there's the vulnerable kind -- that's what Dr Bartholomew says I am."

"What's the difference?"

"Vulnerable narcissists don't deliberately try to hurt others, generally speaking," Jimmy said. "We just ... we tend not to think about others' feelings." He looked down at his drink, turning the glass in his hands contemplatively before raising it to his lips. "It's something I'm working on."

Pac put his hand on the other man's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Hey," he said. "Hey -- look at me." Jimmy raised his head and looked at Pac. "That's good -- at least you're trying, right? I mean, it can't be easy."

Jimmy gave him a half smile.

"I was in therapy for a while when I was a kid," Pac told him. "I mean, I was seeing ghosts, so I musta been crazy, right?" He chuckled sadly. "Sometimes I wish I had been crazy -- it woulda made it a lot easier."

"Why did you stop going?"

"My parents died." Pac took a deep breath and let it out. "And the orphanage wasn't gonna pay for it, so I couldn't keep going."

"That's a shame."

"It would be, if it was something I actually needed," Pac said. "But I wasn't crazy -- just ... tuned in to the dead. Therapy can't fix that."

"You seem to have adjusted to it."

Pac chuckled. "Yeah, seems that way, doesn't it?" He snorted softly. "Yeah. Yeah, I have, kinda. Dewey helped."

"Dewey?"

"Dewey Finn," Pac explained. "We met in middle school -- the first friend I ever had. Well, first real friend. He introduced me to the miracle of Mary Jane."

"Mary Jane?"

"Marijuana. Only thing that helped with my anxiety."

That's ... cool," Jimmy said -- the word felt strange coming out of his mouth, and he wondered if Pac would notice.

Pac gave him a sidelong glance and chuckled. "Yeah," he said. "But what was really cool was that Dewey didn't treat me like I was nuts, you know? He was the first person to make me feel like I was just ... normal." He drained his beer and stood up. "Want another one? I gotta hit the head."

Jimmy finished his beer and nodded. "Thanks," he replied.

Pac raised his hand to get the bartender's attention and held up two fingers. The barman nodded, and Pac said, "Be back in a sec."

Jimmy smiled and watched his new friend head to the men's room, wondering if Pac actually would return.

*****

Pac finished up his business at the urinal, shook himself off and zipped up. He turned towards the sink to wash his hands and nearly collided with an older black man.

He looked up, startled. "Aw, fuck," he said. "Not now."

"I need your help," the man said, clearly desperate.

Pac rubbed his face and gave his head a quick shake. "Can't you find somebody else?" he asked. "I'm just tryna have a nice time with a friend."

"I been here all day, and no one else can see me," the ghost explained. "Please -- you gotta help me."

Pac sighed. "Fuck." He inhaled deeply and set his mouth. "How 'bout I help you with whatever it is that you need tomorrow, okay? Right now I'm kinda busy." And he turned and left the men's room.

"Please! " the ghost said, following him out the door. "I'm begging you -- I can't wait until tomorrow! You need to help my family before it's too late!"

Pac didn't respond, just walked back to his table, the ghost still following, and sat down.

"Hey, Jimmy," he said. "Uh ... where were we?"

"Who's he?" Jimmy asked.

"Who's who?"

"The man standing behind you, talking to you."

"Wait -- what? You can see him?"

Jimmy nodded. "Yes, he's a rather tall, well-built African-American man, in his mid-fifties, I'd say -- wearing a denim jacket and a baseball cap." His eyes widened. "And he has a trail of blood on the left side of his face."

"How the fuck -- you can see ghosts??? "

"I ... suppose," Jimmy said. "At least, I can see that ghost." He frowned, confused. "I don't think this has ever happened before, though."

"You gotta help me, man," the ghost said. "Please."

Pac sighed and looked at Jimmy. "Wanna go on a little adventure?"

*****

"Okay, so you need to get five hundred dollars to my wife by tomorrow morning," the ghost, who'd said his name was Marvin, said. "The rent is past due, and if you don't, my family's gonna get evicted."

"Right," Pac said. "Sure ... okay, so where's your body?"

The ghost shook his head. "Don't matter, man -- money's gone. I got mugged and the guy killed me."

"How am I supposed to get five hundred by tomorrow morning?"

"You can go down to the OTB and put twenty down on tonight's fight. It's a sure thing."

"A sure thing," Pac said. "Riiight."

"It's twenty to one, but I know my guy's gonna win." He grinned. "I'm ... I was his trainer."

"Twenty to one? Not great odds, dude."

"It's guaranteed, I swear!" Marvin insisted. "You can keep the rest of it -- just give my wife the five hundred for the rent."

"Twenty to one odds on twenty bucks ..." If the guy was right, Pac would get fifteen grand -- that was more money than he'd ever seen at one time. "You swear it's a sure thing?"

"Cross my heart and hope to ... well, you know what I mean," the ghost said, chuckling. "But you gotta get to the OTB ASAP -- the fight starts in an hour!"

Pac looked at Jimmy.

"It's just twenty dollars," Jimmy said. "And this is what you do, isn't it -- help ghosts with their unfinished business? I might be a narcissist, but even I know that helping someone who's facing eviction is a good thing. And I've never seen a boxing match before. Although I did once interview a boxer once on Pop Goes the Night. He was what they call an 'up-and-comer' -- I believe his name was Jackson Matthews."

"That's my guy!" Marvin exclaimed. He looked at Pac. "Will you help me?"

Pac sighed again. "You absolutely sure Jackson's gonna win?"

The ghost nodded solemnly.

Pac blew out his cheeks in a long sigh. "Okay, sure -- what the hell, right? It's only twenty bucks."

*****

"Twenty on Jackson Matthews to win," Pac said, fishing the bill out of his wallet.

"A Jackson on Jackson," the bookie smirked. "Cute." He took the banknote and handed Pac the betting slip. "Good luck, pal," he said, shaking his head. He knew a sucker bet when he saw one. "People love an underdog," he said to himself.

"Okay, done," Pac said, putting the slip in his wallet.

"Thank you," Marvin said, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Don't thank me yet -- the fight hasn't started. And if your guy doesn't win, I'm out twenty bucks."

"Now what?" Jimmy asked.

"Now we go back to the bar to watch the fight on TV"

They returned to the bar, and Pac's face fell.

"What the -- what the fuck happened?" The big-screen TV was black, and Carlos, the bartender, was fiddling with the wires on the back of it.

"Damn cable went out.''

"Aw, hell no! I got twenty on the fight tonight!"

"Can't we watch it at your place?" Jimmy asked.

"My cable's been cut off," Pac told him. "I'm behind on the payments. Fuck!"

"You'll still win the money, though."

"But I won't know if I won right away," Pac told him. "And time, apparently, is of the essence."

"It's too bad that I don't get any sports channels," Jimmy said, "otherwise we could watch it at my place."

"It's gonna be on WBNY," Marvin said. "That's a local channel -- everybody has that one."

"WBNY?" Jimmy asked, raising his eyebrows. "That's where I work."

"Okay, then," Pac exclaimed. "Let's head to your place, Jimbo!"

*****

They arrived at Jimmy's apartment to find that the power was out in the whole building.

"Of course it is," Pac sighed.

"What do we do now?" Marvin asked. "The fight's gonna start in a few minutes."

Pac looked at him. "My buddy Dewey -- he's ten minutes away." He looked at his watch. "We won't get there in time to see the start of the match, but maybe it'll last long enough for us to see who wins. Let's go!"

*****

Pac rang the doorbell to Dewey's apartment for the third time. "Shit," he said. "He's not home. He and Rosalie must've gone out tonight."

Marvin's face fell. He looked like he was about to cry.

"Hey," Pac said. "Chin up, dude -- we're not giving up yet, okay? Just give me a moment to think ..." He looked at Jimmy. "Can we watch it at the station?"

Jimmy blinked. "I ... I suppose we could. I don't see why not."

"Let's get going -- there's no time to lose!"

*****

"Jimmy!" Ed Feinstein looked up in surprise when his newest hire arrived. "What are you doing here? And who's your friend?"

"This is Kevin," Jimmy said. "I need to ask you a favour, Mr Feinstein -- would it be possible for us to watch the boxing match here at the station?"

"Why can't you watch it at your place? It's not blacked out."

"My power's out, and Kevin doesn't have cable at the moment."

"Well, of course you can watch it here -- but it's already started." He looked at Jimmy. "I wouldn't've pegged you for a boxing fan, my boy."

"I'm not, but this is important," Jimmy told him. "Thank you, Mr Feinstein."

Jimmy led them to a conference room, picked up the remote and switched on the wide-screen TV, and the three of them sat down to watch the remainder of the fight.

"... but Matthews isn't ready to give up yet," one of the colour commentators was saying.

"You got that right, Mitch," the other agreed. "Gotta hand it to him -- he's got heart."

"That's my boy!" Marvin said proudly.

"Ooh -- a right cross to the jaw, and Matthews is down! That's gotta hurt, but he's back on his feet again! Now Edison is pummelling his midsection -- Matthews is trying to evade, but Edison is like a hurricane!"

"He's got Matthews against the ropes --" The referee stepped in and separated them. "Edison looks like he's getting a bit winded now, trying to catch his breath ... and Matthews goes on the offensive! A jab, a right hook, another jab ... look at him go! He just might win this fight after all, Jerry!"

"That would be a big feather in his cap, for sure!"

Pac, Jimmy and Marvin were on the edges of their seats.

"Come on, boy," Marvin said. "You can do it -- remember what I taught you!"

Jackson Matthews threw a punch -- an uppercut that landed squarely under his opponent's chin and lifted him off his feet. Edison hit the mat with a crash, unconscious. The referee grabbed Matthews' wrist and held it up, and the audience went wild. Jimmy and Pac leapt to their feet and threw their arms around one another, jumping up and down in their excitement.

"What an amazing comeback, Mitch! Jackson Matthews has won his first major fight! From nowhere man to champ ..."

Marvin smiled, tears in his eyes. "I knew you could do it," he said softly.

"Okay," Pac said when they'd calmed down a bit. "Let's go collect our winnings and get it to your wife."

*****

"Are you Mrs Jefferson?" Pac asked the middle-aged black woman who answered the door.

"Who are you?" she said defiantly, tears streaming down her face. "I got till tomorrow to pay!"

"Uh ... no, we're not here to evict you," Pac told her. "My name's Kevin, and this is my friend Jimmy. We're ... friends of Marvin, your husband."

"You know Marvin? What happened to him? Where is he?"

Pac looked at her, his heart breaking. "May we come in? I have good news and bad news."

She opened the door wider. Pac glanced at Marvin -- the ghost nodded with a smile of relief, and then he dissolved into a luminous cloud and rose up, disappearing into the corridor's ceiling light.

*****

Back at the bar, Jimmy took a sip of his beer. "That was ... incredible," he said.

Pac chuckled. "Just another day in the life of Kevin Pacalioglu, medium at large." He looked at Jimmy. "Hey, how come you didn't tell me you could see ghosts?"

"I didn't know -- Marvin was my first, as far as I'm aware." He stared off into the middle distance. "I never thought much about what happens ... after. It's rather nice knowing that this life isn't all there is."

[sunsetcurveauto]

and i LOVE how they showed little percy hesitant to want to learn how to swim. not only is it such a natural kid thing to do but it also highlights even more how much he trusts sally and how distant his relationship to poseidon really is

[mydairpercabeth]

Annabeth trusting Poseidon more than her own MOTHER to protect her. Oh this is sick.

[renaissanceousia]

toby stephens is maggie smith's son?????

[locuas642]

For the record, Poseidon saving Percy wasn't a "And now everything is forgiven" moment, it was a first step in the process of earning Percy's forgiveness.

Which is why Percy's question is not about him, but about wether he cared for Percy's mom.

It's also why he tells Luke that "they are trying"

It's not an erasure of what Poseidon did and making Percy magically love him. It is Poseidon earning himself the right to start the process when Percy might allow him in his life.

[cabin-3-counselor]

I KNEW I WAS GOING TO WIN AT SOME POINT OH MY GOD!!!!!!

I stood by Poseidon and his 12 years child neglect cause I knew he had his reasons, mainly his younger brother calling the shots on how to handle children (big mistake)

I payed no mind to the roman fanfic from the guy that hated Athena and Poseidon about Medusa and her ridiculous speech about her and Sally being "sIsTeRs" (rick and the writers shitting on the og Greek Myth in favour of the roman blasphemy was fucking insane and a disgrace)

AND NOW I FINALLY GOT TO RECEIVE!!!!!!!

.

.

.

.

.

.

Poseidon out parenting Athena inside her temple

Poseidon sending help to Percy without him asking (like in the books, Percy sends a little prayer asking for help) not only in surviving the fall but also in learning a few of his powers

And not holding a grudge for the head of medusa being sent to Olympus

It's just like Nicki said:

"Ayo, they could never make me hate you

Even though what you was doin' wasn't tasteful

Even though you out here lookin' so ungrateful"

[feelingtheaster99]

Honestly so much happens in The Lightning Thief that each book could be like 2 seasons of a television show

This poor 12 year old boy, who just found out that he’s part god has like a life threatening situation in almost every chapter

[creative-hanyou-girl]

In the 1st book series I can have at least a little bit of respect and hope for Athena being a caring mother (as caring as the gods can be anyway).

But TV Athena? I wanna march straight up to Olympus and have a little....chat, with the Goddess of Wisdom about being a somewhat decent parent, possibility of being smited be damned.

I like both of these interpretations of Athena btw, even if TV Athena makes me want to commit a crime (preferably against her).

[what-even-is-thiss]

Still new to the Witcher series. I think I’m mostly done with it after watching the first season and a half of the tv show.

If you’re wondering what I find to be the most funny about the series (because I can find something funny about everything) that’s really hard because this whole thing is frankly ridiculous but I think my favorite part might be that this series imagines a world where even infertile single people have the opportunity to be deadbeat parents.

[bidamonalbarn]

PLEASE infodump about drake

okok this is specific to the drake/kendrick drama but i can also do a drake one too - im assuming you know basically nothing. & i barely know this shit so correct me if im wrong. also this will be routinely updated so! check in :D

2011 - Take Care (album) by Drake features Kendrick Lamar on the track Buried Alive Interlude

2012 - Drake has Kendrick open for his Club Paradise Tour. The same year they both feature on A$AP Rocky's song Fuckin Problems (also with 2 Chainz)

2013 - Kendrick called out a few rappers (J. Cole, Pusha T, Big Sean, etc.) including Drake. Drake responds saying he had no response, basically. They do this again the same year (Kendrick says shit, Drake doesnt respond)

2016 (ish) - They continue subtle beef (Kendrick saying Drake has ghost writers, Drake saying Kendrick "sold out")

2023 - First Person Shooter by Drake and J. Cole drops (their first collab since 2013). In the song Drake mentions "the big three" in reference to himself, J. Cole, and Kendrick

2024, Mar. - Like That by Metro Boomin' and Kendrick Lamar drops. In it Kendrick responds to Drake, saying "the big three ... it's just big me", implying that Kendrick is above Drake and J. Cole. Drake attempts to ban Like That from the radio.

2024, Apr. - Push Ups by Drake is released. The song is about how Drake believes Kendrick is being extorted - the track referencing the phrase "drop and give me 50".

2024, Apr. - Taylor Made Freestyle by Drake is released, his second diss track at Kendrick. Here Drake disses Kendrick for "selling out" specifically in reference to Bad Blood by Taylor Swift ft. Kendrick Lamar. Drake also used AI vocals of Snoop Dogg and Tupac - this resulted in him almost being sued by Tupac's Estate. Drake wiped the song from his sites

2024, Apr. - Euphoria by Kendrick Lamar is released. The track is 6 minutes long, cut down from its original 19 minutes. The title is in reference to the TV series Euphoria which Drake is an executive producer of - it's also referencing the sexualisation of underage people, something done by the show and (allegedly) Drake himself. Within the track Kendrick makes fun of Drakes accent, how Drake says the n-word, how Drake dresses... and a fuck load more

2024, May. - 6:16 in LA by Kendrick Lamar releases, less than 72 hours after Euphoria dropped. This track specifically disses Drake for having ghost writers/lots of co-writers. He also implies that Drakes friends are stabbing him in the back and selling his info. This track is co-produced by Jack Antonoff, who co-writes and co-produces for Taylor Swift.

2024, May. - Family Matters by Drake is released. I want to be honest with you, i didn't listen to this until i got this ask. This track implies Kendrick beats his wife. Drake also disses other rappers such as A$AP Rocky, Future, etc.

2024, May. - Drake releases a Buried Alive Interlude Parody on his Instagram

2024, May. - Meet the Grahams by Kendrick Lamar is released. In this track (which is by far my favourite of all the tracks) Kendrick calls Drake a deadbeat dad and accuses Drake of having another secret child (apart from Adonis). Kendrick has a verse dedicated to this supposed child in which he basically parents her - teaching her all the things Drake wont. He also implies Drake struggles with alcohol and gambling

2024, May. - Not Like Us by Kendrick Lamar is released. The fourth diss track from Kendrick. In this track Kendrick alleges that there's pedophiles and trafficking within OVO (an indie record label founded by Drake). Kendrick also says that every rapper who's complimented Drake is lying and now hates him for using Tupac's vocals through AI. This track includes my favourite line "Tryna stike a chord and it's probably A-Minor"

[bjfinn]

Ordered 29 June, came today!

Now I don't have to worry that it'll disappear from online streaming.

Check out www.hardtofindtv.com if you like hard copies and can't find a series you want.

[anjee0]

A Melody from the Heart

Chapter 1 ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Eminem x Female!reader (Feel free to put in your own oc insert as well if you wish)

Description - Y/n is struggling artist who decides to perform at an event hosted by MTV where a bunch of celebrities will be watching in person. Marshall is invited and is immediately captured by Y/n's beautiful voice. Now all he wants is for her to be on his next song.

Warnings - Throughout the series there will be: Smut, Mild swearing (More warnings to be added in the future)

Y/n quickly finished applying her mascara to her eyelashes as she got ready for work. Before she left, she quickly checked her Spotify profile to check if any of her songs had increased in streams.

One song had.

By two streams.

It had bumped up from 502 to 504. She sighed, accepting two streams was better than nothing.

Y/n's dream since she was probably about 4 or 5 was to be a singer. She always imagined singing in front of a large crowd at a concert on a giant stage with vibrant colourful lights and those fancy smoke machines. She didn't grow up in a healthy household, her father was a deadbeat and her mother was always getting high on the couch. She dropped out of high school at 17 and ran away. She was able to make a decent living, always hopping from one job to another as her music career on the side continued to struggle.

She swiftly walked down the plain concrete pavement, trying to ignore the gross smell of garbage everywhere that lingered throughout all of New York. Whilst walking, the corner of her caught a line of posters taped on to a fence. 

The posters all appeared to be for some sort of event called the: ‘The Rhythm of New York’. The posters were dark blue and on it read some information.

You've probably heard of our event: ‘The Rhythm of New York’ plastered all over social media. We are looking for 10 lucky musicians of all musical talent to come and perform. You will receive a nifty cash prize of $5,000 for performing and also be featured on live TV. Book an audition by calling the number at the bottom of the poster, we will tell you further details from there.

There was a number at the bottom like the description said in a simple white font. Y/n quickly took a picture of the poster before realising that she'd be late if she didn't get moving.

She eventually reached the diner and right on time too. She was immediately greeted by her friend, Maya, who was standing behind the counter with a beautiful smile on her face.

“Morning Y/n.” Maya said.

“Morning Maya.” Y/n responded, giving her friend a smile. She went to the back and got her apron on and clocked in. 

Y/n immediately started on her regular duty of cleaning down the tables.

“Hey, have you heard of this thing called ‘The Rhythm of New York?” Y/n asked.

Maya gasped a little too dramatically. “Heck yes! It's gonna be the best event of this year!”

“What, are you going?”

Maya looked at her friend in a confused manner and started laughing hysterically.

“What's so funny?” Y/n asked, her voice laced with confusion.

“Girl, have you not been on social media recently?”

Y/n shook her head slowly. “No, I've been kinda busy with my music and then I've been taking extra shifts too.”

“Okay, fair enough. Come here.”

Y/n walked over to Maya as she pulled out her phone and looked around.

“Let's hope Tom doesn't catch me, or he's gonna get mad.” Maya whispered.

Maya opened TikTok and opened the search bar. And on the trending searches, ‘The Rhythm of New York’ was there. She tapped the search suggestion and clicked on the first video as she handed the phone over to Y/n.

Y/n watched the video with anticipation as a girl with curly brunette hair and blue eyes entered the screen.

“Okay so if you haven't heard, MTV is hosting an event in New York called the ‘Rhythm of New York.’ In this event, a lot of musicians and other celebrities have been invited.” The girl explained ecstatically. “MTV wants 10 or so people to come perform in front of these celebrities which sounds so nerve racking but fun!”

“Oh, so it's a celebrity event?” Y/n asked.

“Yeah, I heard Beyoncé and Billie are going. If I could sing, I would audition. Wait, hold on…” Maya smirked at Y/n.

“I know what you're thinking. You want me to audition. And I was gonna audition.”

“Was?”

“I saw a poster while I was walking here so I thought I'd ask you something about it. But if there are gonna be celebrities there? Then I'm out!”

“Girl, why?! This is your chance to turn your 200 monthly listeners to 20 million! Maybe even more, who knows? And the cash prize is $5,000! And you'll be on live TV!”

“I know, that's a good cash price and I'd love to go on live TV. But performing in front of a bunch of talented musicians? What if I mess up?”

“You won't. I've heard your songs girl and they are beautiful!”

“Okay, and what is MTV gonna think when a 32 year old woman with a struggling music career who also works at a diner wants to audition. They're gonna think-”

“Nothing.” Maya interrupted.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing. They're gonna think nothing. They're not gonna care how much you're struggling when talent like you shows up on their doorstep.”

“Yeah, but-”

Y/n was interrupted by a jingle, indicating that their first customer of the day walked through the doors.

“We'll talk about this later.” Maya said.

“Dad, come on! This seems really fun!” Hailie exclaimed as she shook her dad by the shoulders.

“Hailie, get off my shoulders. Listen, I get where you're coming from but in all honesty? I cannot be bothered to fly all the way to New York.”

“Paul thinks it'd be good for you. Plus, you may see someone who might be a good feature in your song.”

“That will probably not happen. Did you hear they were holding the event at The Studio of Webster Hall? I was expecting MTV to hold it at a slightly bigger venue.” Marshall complained.

“What? The Studio of Webster Hall is a beautiful venue. It doesn't matter if it's big.  But come on dad, please?” Hailie begged.

“I won't have anyone to come with me.”

“I can come with you.”

“Don't you have your podcast?”

“My fans will understand. Come on dad, this will be really fun. Plus, Stevie and Alaina are busy, we haven't been able to hang out lately.”

“Okay, fine.” Marshall sighed, a bit embarrassed on how he could easily give in when it came to his daughter.

“Yes!” Hailie cheered.

“Only if you behave.”

“I will, I promise.”

Marshall smiled lovingly at his daughter before pulling her into a hug.

Y/n laid down in her bed as she stared at the picture of the poster on her phone. She contemplated whether or not she should take Maya's advice and call the number. She had all the crucial information needed and now all was left was the decision making.

She dialled the number as her thumb shook and it hovered over the green call button. She finally clicked it, she could feel her heart pumping out of her chest and her stomach twisting and turning.

“This is the Rhythm of New York helpline. Press 1 if you wish to audition.” A robotic female voice said at the end of the line.

Y/n pressed 1 on the keyboard without hesitation. Cliche hotel lobby music started to play for a few minutes before it stopped and a cheery female voice started talking.

“Hi there, I'm Kelly, how can I help you today?”

“Uh hi…” Y/n responded, her voice shaking with nervousness. She mentally slapped herself for sounding so anxious. “Uhm, I want to audition for The Rhythm of New York please?”

“Of course sweetheart. What's your name?”

“Y/n Y/l/n.”

“Okay, and state your age, gender and occupation.”

“Uh, 32, female and I work at a diner. But I also make songs on Spotify.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. Tryna make it big, huh?” 

“Uh, yeah.” 

“I don't blame you. This is a great opportunity for you.”

“Oh, uh, yeah, thanks.”

“I have a few questions I'll have to ask you, is that okay?”

“Go ahead.”

“What song do you plan on singing at the event?”

“Is it okay if I can sing one of my own songs?”

“That is more than okay. What is it called?”

“A Melody from the Heart.”

“Is there any explicit language or topics in your song?”

“One two swear words. I say shit like twice.”

“Is it okay if you can find a way to alter those to different words?”

“Fine by me.”

“Are you aware you will be on live TV?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, are you aware of the date and timings, yes?”

“October 29th and is it 8pm to 12am?”

“Correct. And I assume you are free that night?”

“Yes, but is it okay if I can leave as soon as I finish performing?”

“Uhm, yes…” Kelly responded, confused. “May I ask why?”

“I have to get to work right after.” Y/n lied. In all honesty, she would just want to get out of there as soon as she could. The idea of her possibly talking to a celebrity had her nearly fainting. “It's okay right?”

“Of course, sweetie. I understand you.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“So what you'll need to do is make an audition tape of you singing your song. In the tape you have to state your name-”

“Sorry, could you slow down please? I need to write this.” Y/n interrupted as she quickly found a notebook and pen.

“That's fine. Make an audition tape of you singing. In the tape, state your full name, age and what song you're going to sing. Then send that tape to our email. Type up the information stated in the video on to the email. Make sure to type up your email address and regular address.”

Y/n scribbled all the information into her notebook. “Okay thank you Kelly. When do I have to submit this?”

“Within two days.”

“Oh, and how long is the waiting list?”

“Around 100 people as of now.”

“Oh.”

“Don't worry, Y/n. Even if you don't get it, just know you tried.

Y/n hung up the phone and immediately called Maya, who picked it up as soon as it started ringing.

“Hey Y/n, you okay?” Maya asked.

“I'm good. I just called The Rhythm of New York helpline and got myself registered.”

“Wait, you did?! Oh my gosh, yes!” Maya exclaimed. Y/n could see her smiling through the phone.

“Yup, and I gotta make an audition tape. Is it okay if you can come over? You know, for moral support?”

“Yes, of course! Is that even a question? I'm coming over right now.”

Maya came in a matter of time looking ecstatic as she jumped all over the place.

“Calm down Maya, the downstairs neighbours are gonna kill me.” Y/n laughed.

“I'm sorry, I'm just so happy for you!”

“I haven't even submitted my audition tape.”

“And they're gonna want to have you as soon as they listen.”

“Thank you for the motivation. You are honestly so sweet. Anyway, I need to start this. But I gotta practise first. And I gotta replace a few of the swear words.”

“What song are you singing?”

“A Melody from the Heart.”

“Ooh, your own song! Okay, that's good!”

Y/n spent the next few minutes practising to make sure that she could ace the audition tape. Her and Maya also spent a bit too long trying to figure out what words would sound better to replace ‘shit’. It was harder than it sounds.

When Y/n thought that she was ready to record her tape, Maya immediately stopped her.

“Girl, are you seriously gonna make your tape in a baggy shirt and shorts right now?”

Maya was right. Y/n looked like a hot mess. She was wearing a pair of red shorts and a baggy black top. Her hair was a mess too.

“Okay I guess you're right. What should I wear?”

The girls then spent the next 20 minutes scouring through Y/n's closet, trying to find a nice outfit. They settled on a long white silk dress. Maya insisted on doing Y/n's hair. She ended up settling on a nice sleek bun. Maya then put on a little bit of makeup for her, wanting to be Y/n's personal stylist.

“I look amazing!” Y/n exclaimed. “Thank you Maya. What would I do without you?” Y/n immediately pulled her friend into a tight hug.

“Of course, I wanna always be here for you. Are you ready to make that tape?”

“You bet I am! I just gotta practise one more time.”

Y/n finished one last practice of her song and took a deep breath as she nodded to Maya, indicating her to turn on the camera.

“Hi, I'm Y/n Y/l/n and I'm a 32 year old female auditioning to sing at The Rhythm of New York. I'm going to be singing one of my own songs that I wrote myself called, A Melody from the Heart.” She tried to sound confident, and she mainly did. Although she did accidentally let a bit of nervousness slip through her voice.

Y/n started singing her song, being careful and mindful, making sure she hit all her notes perfectly and got the lyrics correct. She made sure to keep her song clean and Live TV friendly. She sounded angelic and her voice was absolutely beautiful. Once she was done she nodded to Maya, a sign to her to turn the camera off.

“Do you wanna listen to it?” Maya asked.

“Yeah let me see.”

Despite sounding absolutely perfect, Y/n would keep asking Maya to record her again and again until she was happy with the results. It took around 3 or 4 tries before she was finally happy and decided that she was done.

“I think this is the one. I just gotta send it to them.” Y/n confirmed.

“That's good. It's getting late, I gotta get going. I'll see you tomorrow. Good luck, girl.” Maya responded.

“Of course. Thank you again for the help. See you tomorrow.”

“You're welcome. Bye.”

Y/n bid Maya bye before sending her video to MTV's email and typing the necessary information on the email. Once she was happy, she clicked send and held out a breath she didn't realise she was holding.

Y/n got changed out of her clothes and took off her makeup. She redid her makeup and had dinner before brushing her teeth and getting into bed.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

SOMETIMES, you'd like to know who your mother was before she became your mother.

You want to know where the acidic and corrosive elements that precede each of her statements come from. Perhaps she acquired it from your father—someone even more poisonous than she was. However, from how it blended with her expression every time she said: “a man’s heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing!” you can't be convinced otherwise that before she met your father, she wasn't like that—that she was once a loving girl before he wrecked her and made her your vengeful mother.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And yet, as far as you know, your mother's is still dripping with blood. Rotten. Maggot infested.

You believed it was exactly what she wanted—so that it wouldn't heal, so that she wouldn't forget how much it burned and constricted her. Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, and she will undoubtedly carry it with her until death. “A man's heart is truly a wretched, wretched thing,” she says, as if she's sure you'll forget what happened to her—to both of you. As if losing the love of her life was hereditary. “Don't you see, sweetheart? We are a paradox of contrasts and twins.”

You're still wondering whether it was a warning or a prayer. Good mothers ensure with all their body and soul that the past does not repeat itself, that their daughters do not embody everything they might become – their mothers. God forbid they dragged themselves across the floor, trembling fingers stretched stiffly clawing at doors that had been long since being slammed shut. However, your mother wasn’t always a good mother, and she often swore over her mother's grave that you would feel the same way she did.

And yet, despite her curses and how much you hate her as much as you hate your deadbeat father, apparently a sense of familiarity is what you're searching for.

Perhaps, that’s what made him catch your eye.

Soft footsteps were created when several pairs of ballerina pointe shoes came down the hallway after the performance ended. Smiles and laughter were among them—a familiar sight; the audience was satisfied with their performance, and they were sure that the ballet director had no more notes for them because, firstly, Marie, the main ballerina in the role of Giselle, had become the center of conversation thanks to her gifted movements, leaving no room for talking about little "building" errors for the other dancers. Second, this season has reached its end, which means they won't be showing "Giselle" again for at least the next few months.

“I saw you sneak chocolates before the show, El.” One ballerina teased.

“They're for energy!” Eloise insisted with a grin.

The ornaments on their heads moved as they both laughed. You flashed a smile but didn't dare enter into the conversation. Satin-clad feet kept moving in the direction of the corps de ballet dressing room door. More laughter and gossip ensued as you passed through the door to the small vanity you shared with another dancer.

"So where are you going after this?" someone at the next table asked, not at you.

You turned around, periodically glancing in the mirror to wipe away the last traces of makeup. "I don't know! Somewhere that can help me relieve stress, obviously. Soph?” Claudine directed her question at another, still not you.

“Sorry, girls, but I have to sit this one out. My mamma has been protesting about me coming home late lately ever since she saw some protests on TV. You two have fun without me.” Sophia declines—that leaves Jules and Claudine alone then. You were ready to return to your own thoughts when Sophia's hazel eyes fixed on you and called your name. "What about you?"

Claudine turned to you, her lips forming a teasing smirk. “Gonna go home and practice some more, no doubt,” she teased. “Live a little for once! Come out with us.”

You focused on untying your pointe shoes while the other two laughed. “No thanks, I'm tired. Think I'll just relax tonight.”

Rather than a teasing smirk, now Claudine's lips resembled a declaration that she was correct once more: "Look, I'm right, aren't I? She's still the same boring girl. No surprise that the best role she can get is dancing as a leaf in the background." It's no longer a myth. It is no longer a myth that other dancers—old and new—only see a robot prodigy, soulless in her single-minded pursuit of perfection. Your movements were full of precision, tempered by years of being under the training of a Russian coach your mother sought out for you. And yet your body is sharpened for nothing more than the purpose of being a vessel. Hushed jokes about you selling your soul to the devil for your skills.

“Aww, not even for one night? Loosen up that tight bun of yours?”

You shoved the last of your things hastily into your bag, not paying attention as someone else's hairbrush and chapstick were forced to sit on top of your toiletry bag—you can always return them tomorrow. The other girls are still laughing while you swing the overstuffed duffel over your shoulder.

“Goodnight,” you say tensely, clutching the strap of your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your shoes and hurried out of the dressing room, their taunts echoing in your ears.

London streets glistened wetly as you made your way down the sidewalk. The recent rain left dark spots on the pavement. You pull your coat tighter around you, shivering in the damp night air. As you passed a rowdy pub, loud voices and laughter spilled out onto the street. Warm light and the smell of beer beckoned from within, but you hurried on without glancing in, not wanting to face anyone's eyes.

The entrance to the subway glimmers under the streetlamps. You descend the stairs slowly, your shoes clicking on the concrete steps. The underground platform was nearly empty at this late hour. A lone figure dozed on one of the wooden benches, and a teenage couple whispered together further down the tiles. Your eyes roam over the tiled walls and ads for shows you'd never see—anything to avoid looking at other people and risking a confrontation.

The screech of brakes announces the arrival of your train, followed by beams of lights illuminating the dark tunnel. You boarded the mostly empty carriage and sat down, watching the dark tunnel walls pass by. On the opposite side, your weary reflection in the glass glances back at you.

Soulless.

Soulless ballerina.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS HAVE GONE BY: Thirteen times, you were part of the corps de ballet in Swan Lake. And now, the new director—whom they “imported” directly from somewhere in France to replace the old one—announces that the next season will be Swan Lake. You don't have anything against it—why should you? Thirteen times. Thirteen times in the corps de ballet, and this time will make no difference to you; just another faceless dancer in the flock, never the Swan Queen—they wouldn't risk a soulless ballerina in the spotlight. But wouldn't audiences grow bored of the same classic retold so often?

"Now now, I know you are all tired of this ballet," he said calmly. "But we will be doing something different - a new interpretation, with a fresh artistic vision. This will be Swan Lake as you have never seen it before. Rehearsals will focus on bringing new emotional depth and dimensionality to these iconic roles. Who knows – maybe some new faces will emerge for leading roles. I’m looking forward to seeing what you all can do. Now let us begin."

The familiar piano notes of our warm-up piece drifted through the studio as you took your place at the barre, fingers curling around the worn wood. You close your eyes and focus on steadying your breathing. Even when your muscles hurt from fatigue, you persist through well-known stretching exercises with a focused effort. Your eyelids flutter open, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the new director watching silently at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in each dancer.

“One.. and.. two.. and..”

As you move on to tendus and plies, you let the rhythm of the count wash over you – “.. three.. and.. four.. and..” Your burning thighs, your stretching calves, your flexing toes. "First position...and plié. Second position...and tendu. Third position...and rond de jambe." and the coach's familiar count. Your mind wanders as the dancers continue, thinking about the director's words about seeking new depths. Stealing a glance through the mirror, your eyes returned to the man—his ringed fingers in front of his lips as he pondered.

The music continues to play, swelling with a crescendo. You concentrate on your movements again, lifting your legs high according to standard and extending your lines through fingertips.

You found your eyes drifting to the director's reflection in the mirror more and more. The coach's voice faded into a blur as you studied his intense expression, watching for any sign of interest or approval. But time and again, his gaze passed over you without pause, lingering instead on Claire or Amelia as they executed perfect pirouettes or graceful penche poses. A familiar ache of longing and envy twisted in your stomach. No matter how hard you focused or how flawlessly you hit each position, you remained invisible to him.

Your breaths are shallow, and your head is whirling. Your eyes couldn't stop following him; he was walking around watching dancers who weren't you. He spoke to the coach, then stepped back with his hands linked behind his back. Still not you. As the music nears the end and the dancers have transitioned into combination movements, he still doesn't look at you.

You know the truth: this will be your fourteenth Swan Lake, and you will once again blend into the anonymous corps de ballet. The reflection of a woman in the mirror—your reflection, somber with lifeless eyes and dull hair pulled back in tight bun. The director stated that he wanted to bring forth new depths and emotional aspects to distinguish his Swan Lake from those of other opera houses, therefore it's fitting that he didn't choose you. As an empty ache expands in your chest, you accept the truth: this is your fourteenth Swan Lake, being another swan for the fourteenth time.

The director won’t choose you.

He won't choose you.

He won't choose...

You.

He chose you. You don't know why or how.

An hour later, you find yourself standing in Studio A, facing uncertainly across the hardwood floor. Five of the girls sat at the end of the room while the director watched Claire give her interpretation of Odette in her white swan act. You watch her movements critically, noting the slight wobble in her lower back and how her port de bras could be straighter. Her pirouettes needed more control and spotting—you counted two extra turns that threw off her balance. Then she launched into the black swan's sinister variations. Gone was the white swan, replaced by a vixenish temptress oozing sensuality from her pores. The director made a few thoughtful comments you didn't quite catch before dismissing her.

The director breathed out your name and you were quick on your feet. He crossed his arms over his chest as you took your place in the center. You looked at the girls behind you through the mirror reflection, then at the director, then signaled the pianist to begin.

The famous White Swan melody plays, and you start. Plie, tendu, glissade—your limbs moved through the steps as they had a thousand times, polished, technically perfect. Your movements rely on muscle memory, analyzing your every move through a critical lens. First pose: left arm extended, back straight, neck long. Check. The second one: right leg stretched to the sky, toes pointed to the max. But was your ankle tilted just now? You furrowed your brows while making a mental note to adjust. Entering another glissade, you land on the ball of my foot, keeping your plie low. One.. and.. two. You count the seconds, nitpicking any imperfections.

“Slow down, dear, find your breath.” The director's voice cuts through your thoughts. Find your breath? You were in complete control of your breathing, hitting every mark precisely as the music demanded. What more should you find?

You barreled ahead through the choreography, unwilling to let up on your own rigid standards even as he continued offering feedback. "Loosen your shoulders...savor each moment rather than rushing to the next...let us see you feel the music, not just hear it."

But you are feeling it. You feel every crescendo and decrescendo—you stay in rhythm with the music as the score enters the ritardando section. How could he say you didn't feel the music when you lived and breathed each score? You knew this piece inside and out. From the opening notes, you have remembered not just the choreography but every key change and tempo variation. By the time you sank into your final pose, you were a bundle of nerves.

“Your technique is superb, but so tightly wound,” the director said. “Try to loosen up your lines and embrace the artistry, not just the steps. Now, show me your Black Swan.”

As the dark notes of the Black Swan coda swirl, you pour all your focus into hitting each precise movement with flawless technique. You arch into an arabesque, extending your working leg to the maximum while maintaining perfect turnout. Your spot was fixed, and your balance was unwavering. You continue through the practiced motions, and you fly into your final fouetté combo. As the last note faded, you struck your ending pose.

Slowly, you straightened your body and lifted your gaze to meet his, pressing your sweaty palms together tightly. The director remained silent, hand in front of his mouth, and looked you up and down in a way that made you want to flee. But, you restrained yourself, waiting patiently for his consideration. The pressure in the room was so intense that it made you suffocate.

After what felt like eternity, he gave a small nod – neither acceptance nor rejection. “Thank you, Mademoiselle, that was… illuminating. Please check the cast list tomorrow morning – we will announce our decisions then.”

The compliment is ambiguous, with two implications that you know tend toward the negative. Your anxiety failed to calm down, and all you could muster was a hushed thank you before you left the studio in a daze, questions still swirling around unanswered like always.

Now here you are, unfortunate enough to be under the wailing sky of London with minimal cover from a shuttered cafe. The dense fog and wind impede your eyesight, making it difficult to see the towering structures. On the left side, several cafes and pubs radiate their orange lights from within, beckoning anyone in need of somewhere to go for a quick drink or two. Anyone but you, apparently.

The city streets felt hauntingly deserted through the deluge of falling water. Shivering even in your coat and tights, you knelt down and tightened your scarf. Puddles of water begin to form in the potholes, and you desperately hope that the rain will stop soon; you still have a long ride home on the subway to prepare for tomorrow.

Just then, a splash of heavy footsteps caught your attention.

Through the sheets of rainfall, you glimpsed a tall figure hurrying down the sidewalk, taking in what little details you could discern. His leather jacket and boots, yet the way he hunched his broad shoulders against the storm conveyed a certain roughness. You squinted to make out his face, only to find it covered by a mask and a hood pulled too low. It's unsettling, but disturbingly, it makes you enthusiastically guess what lies beneath it—was he handsome or scarred? Young or weathered by experience? It intrigued you so much that you didn't realize he was only three steps away from you.

As the stranger approaches, you take more details that should have set off alarms. His all-black leather jacket may have been fine material, but it was worn and faded. And although broad-shouldered, his build spoke more of hardened muscle than gentility. Everything about him screams danger. When he drew up beside you, you intended to duck past and continue on your way.

But something held you rooted to the spot.

Now, two strangers stood side by side, between them were raindrops dragged cruelly by the cold wind. His towering figure was as still as a statue; for a man his size, he was skilled enough to be almost invisible, almost. The scent of him washed over you then—alcohol, but not the refined wines and spirits of high society. This was something rougher, meant to burn away thought rather than enhance it. Beneath that, cigarette smoke and a musky men’s cologne, attempting to cover something.

The man is still silent, and you should've taken this as your second chance to leave. There are only two possibilities for a man like him: a perverted stalker or a serial killer—most likely the latter, because for what reason would he decide to take shelter under the awning of a dark bankrupt cafe with a woman when the surrounding pubs are still serving happy hour?

While the stranger settles against the wall, you notice his large hand drift casually into his pants pocket. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in panic wondering what weapon he might pull out – a knife, or worse. All instincts screamed to run away, but your feet remained rooted to the ground, frozen.

“Nasty night.”

Your body comes to a complete stop. The air is forgotten, and you wonder if you really heard him speak just now or if you were just hallucinating. He has a roughness to his voice, gravels, and a low range with a hint of timbre muffled by his dark mask. Unknowingly turning toward him, you stared at his side profile until he met your gaze, and you swiftly looked straight forward again.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” You stuttered in reply, cursing your trembling voice. Gripping your duffel bag tighter, you tried not to say anything that might offend him.

Minutes pass, the rain as the only noise. Finally, he spoke again, "Subway, yeah?" Between the sound of the rain and his muffled ones, you tried hard to make out what he was saying. After fully understanding it, you give it a nod.

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. From the corner of your eye, you knew he was taking off his mask. Your heart beats fast as you resist the urge to turn your head, settling to look at the dark street in front of you instead. Smoke wafts between you both, creating faint, short-lived tendrils in the air.

The two of you were in silence. You wanted to talk to him again but didn't know what there was to say; it could be that he just wants to smoke with a company, a quiet company. He let out a puff of fresh cigarette smoke, and you inhaled it all. Toxins are bad for the skin and lungs, and yet you're better off suffocating than giving the impression that you're disturbed.

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He took the last drag and threw the cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.” His voice muffled again – he had put his mask back on.

You hesitated at his offer, biting your lip as you weighed the options rapidly in your mind. On one hand, the rain shows no signs of letting up, and this awning provides only a little protection at best. But to follow a strange man through the streets, alone, allowing him to take you to a spot where inebriation may be present—where his worst pals might be waiting. Girls your age being spiked is something you hear about a lot.

Shaking your head, you manage a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

He tilts his head, his eyes peering from the mask's shadows as if reading your unspoken fears. Does he see the consideration behind your polite refusal—how now you are a vulnerable woman, and this relative anonymity without further conversation is a safe option, despite the discomfort? Within his dark eyes, there was a stirring that you didn't understand. Pity? Or mockery? Under his towering height and massive body, you were nothing but a frightened rabbit.

Gusts of wind drive cold droplets under the awning. You suppressed a shiver, hugging yourself tighter. “Really, I'll be fine. The rain can't last forever." A forced laugh follows your words.

You seize the chance to stare back at him. It was impossible for you to know what calculations were going through his mind, or what emotion lay beneath that mask. It's pretty unfair, you think, that he can hide under a hood that nearly makes him invisible in the dark of night while he can see all of you—a greasy-haired woman hoping the man in front of her will respect her dumb decision. It's the least he can do.

Just when you think this staring game would go on for another minute, he turns his gaze. “Suit yourself, love.” His voice comes out gruff, and your heart drops thinking you've let him down (but, for what?). "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

A pang of guilt crashes into you as he turns his shoe the other way. For safety's sake, you rejected him, thinking you're being sensible; but there's an authoritative voice in the back of your mind telling you, "He's the first nice guy in a long time, and look what you gave in exchange for his kind offer." Self-doubt is playing in your heart. His back was already turning, boots squelching away into the rain.

“Wait!” You called after him, hating how small and frightened you sounded. He paused and searched back, eyes questioning through the mask. Steeling your nerves, you step into the downpour. “I'm coming with you.”

If this guy thinks you're an indecisive woman who can't even commit to a decision for more than five seconds, thank goodness he didn't say anything other than give you another stare. He led the way as he went, holding the door of one of the busy London pubs. More liquor and tobacco smells. You both entered, bringing a burst of damp wind with you. The warmth and noise within are a shock after the storm outside.

He steers you towards the fireplace, shrugging out of his soaked jacket. “Get yourself by the hearth,” he said, nodding to an empty chair. “Dry off.”

You did as he said gratefully, holding your hands out to the flames. The colors returned to your cheeks; fear slowly evaporated away.

“What'll you have, love?” He asked, and you frowned before understanding. Oh, drinks.

“Something light,” is all you say, eyes lowered again. The man gave a nod and went to give the bartender the order.

He returned not long after, setting the drinks down and taking the chair opposite to yours, stretching out his long legs toward the fire. You took the gin with a murmured “thank you.” He settled with his own—whiskey in a glass, neat. You glanced at the remains of rainwater dripping heavily from his clothes in a growing puddle at his boots. The drinks were enjoyed in companionable silence, still trying to find calm after the storm's fury.

The fire crackles merrily as you sit. Finding your voice, you clear your throat gently.

“Thank you, for…” Your fingers tapped nervously on the glass. “Well, for everything, I suppose.”

His eyes lifted from the flames to meet yours, and you offered a small smile. “I’m (Y/N).”

As the name slips out, you berate yourself. How stupid, giving up something as personal as your name! This man was still a stranger, no matter his kindness so far. For all you know, bad intentions could be lurking behind that calm gaze even now. But in the cozy glow of the fire, your sense of awareness wavered, lulled to sleep in a false sense of security.

He merely nodded, moving his hand to the mask hook over his ear without expressing much emotion. Your eyes widened, and your heart was pounding. The breath in your lungs stilled in anticipation as the fabric peeled slowly back, inch by inch. Is he about to...?

The man removed his mask, appearing at ease and lacking in secrecy. He looks at you, and you quickly look aside, pretending to offer him a little privacy. You wait for him to finish, to put it on again, but he never does. Is it okay to look-

Deciding to no longer be the uneasy one (since the guy looks completely unconcerned as he takes a long sip of his drink), you follow suit and allow the liquid to cascade down your throat. There's a slight thump as your glass hits the aged wood. Your curiosity is piqued even more by the fact that he hasn't made any moves to wear it again. Slowly, you raised your gaze, meeting that unveiled gaze – a secret not meant for your eyes.

Blonde eyelashes – pretty. Faint shadows hung under the eyes. Light stubble. Scars dotted his jaw, thin white slashes earned from unknown origins. His nose sat slightly off-center, clearly broken more than once in past altercations—bar fights, perhaps? Though something about the precise thinness of the lines didn't seem right for brawling. Regardless of which one, he is clearly no stranger to violence, and being near him is enough for someone to sense the danger he was capable of.

But, there is something about that powerful jawline, the intensity found only in his hooded eyes, spokes of steel and intricate details that defy explanation. Fire in his eyes. Even after taking off the mask and grasping it between his lengthy fingers—just when you think all the curtains have been exposed—he still remains a mystery.

(And you're just another gullible woman who believes she knows how to solve the puzzle.)

You wait; surely he will offer his own name in return now that you've bared yours. But seconds ticked by in the silence, and still he said nothing.

A flush crept up your neck at the realization that he had no intention of reciprocating. Did you misread this entire meeting? Why did he bring you here if not to talk? You observe his stony profile, wishing you could see past him. Did he intend to remain a mystery—an enigma full of intrigue? Or is it actually a test to see how long your curiosity can last?

Your fingers fidget with the condensation on your glass. Under this new tension, the easy silence fell away. Seeking an escape from the awkwardness, you looked for something, anything. Your gaze landed on a group of regulars in the corner, laughing boisterously.

“Do you, um, come here often?” You ask lamely, cursing your inability to make small talk. But there was an amused glint in his eyes that put you back at ease.

“Aye, I'm 'ere often enough,” he replied, taking another sip. You assume he finds humor in your discomfort, rather than mocking it. The knot in your shoulders loosened, and you relaxed into a smile again.

For good or ill, this man stirred something deep inside you—and you're desperate to scavenge for light, safe conversation topics to continue the conversation.

“So, um, what kind of work do you—” You catch yourself, cheeks warming. Too personal to ask a stranger met by chance. You let out a dry laugh. “Sorry, I don't mean to pry. It’s just… making conversation.”

At the small thud of his glass meeting the scarred wood of the table, your eyes darted up in surprise. Already empty—have you been so lost in thought that you missed him finishing? A swell of questions rose inside you as you watched his movements for a clue. Would he signal the bartender for a refill, extending your time together? Or was this the end—the strange encounter came to a close because you somehow offended him for prying too much?

“Military.”

Unexpectedly, he gave a single-word reply. Military—that explains a lot, from his physique and bearing to the scars and the lingering scents that cling to his coat.

"Oh!" was all you could think of as a response. More questions swim to the surface, demanding to be asked, but you quash them, not wanting to risk being presumptuous a second time.

Feeling indebted, you then offer, "I do ballet, with the Metropolitan Opera." The words slip out before you can check them, and inwardly you curse yourself once again. 

Great. Name, job, and workplace. Why don't you give him your address next?

You bit your lip. Risking a glance up, you hope he won't take your openness as foolishness. His quiet acceptance has so far calmed your nerves, and now you find yourself craving that ease again.

“Must be rewarding,” is all he offers—you grow accustomed to his terse responses. Plain, perhaps even half-hearted, but you smile as though he had read you a lovely poetry full of flattery.

“Yeah, it's really rewarding to dance and like, share that joy with others.”

Liar. What can a soulless ballerina have to share? So far, frustration is what you inflict on your director, and criticism is secretly a “reward” for your fellow dancers. You understand perfectly well, from the top of your head to the balls of your toes, that there is no joy that you can share. However, this man didn't know. He doesn't know who or how you are. Since the very beginning, you have spoken truth to him; allow this one deception to pass.

Your fingertips made a gentle squeak as they rubbed across the condensation on your glass. “If I may ask… what inspired you to serve?”

For a moment, he was quiet, considering with eyes turned to the flames.

"It was a calling, I suppose," came the gruff reply. “The world had its darkness even then. Felt a duty to stand against it.”

After providing an answer, the two of you returned to silence. You gazed thoughtfully into the flames, thinking of how you might spark another conversation that didn't rely solely on question and answer. The last thing you want is for him to view you as overbearing or pushy.

“What drew you to ballet, then?”

It was unexpected for him to pose a question, and you were taken aback when he did. Your lips curved into a smile as you thought about the answer, and your mother's role in starting it all.

"Well, I think it started because Mom thought ballet was 'cute'." A tone of amusement permeates your voice. “She had no idea about the art or discipline—she just wanted to see her little girl swirl and spin in frilly costumes. But I had fun dancing, dressing up, and listening to the music...”

Somewhere in your head, your mother's voice echoes again. Bitter and resentful, encased in an everlasting nightmare. Your mother stood in the audience, and you ran towards her, tutu skirt fluttering gently. She wiped her eyes and knelt down in front of you, whispering, "You were marvelous, sweetheart," as she drew you in. She smiles, but it stops short of her eyes. Then a string of apologies, saying that he’s gone—that she knew he had promised you to be here, but he's gone. Dad is gone. And he'll never see what you can do.

“My first real performance, in elementary school… I was so proud when the curtain fell.” You continue, remembering another face that has long been a ghost in the past.

("Why did you let that man walk away?")

You clear your throat softly. “After that, it just felt right, you know? Like I'd found where I belong.”

Liar.

Steering away from the bitter past, you change the direction of the conversation again. “Are you from around here?” It's a simple question, maybe even stupid. His accent alone makes it plain he grew up in this land, but, no matter how long you've lived in England, you have a small grasp of regional dialects within the country.

“I mean, I know you're obviously from here—your accent kind of gives it away.” You waved. “I just meant—is this area home for you? Or are you from elsewhere originally?”

The barest upturn of his lips catches your eye. Was that a smile? On this gruff, grumpy stranger who has only revealed so little so far? Your heart beats at the sight, rare as a summer snowflake. He reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and held it between his dry lips. The lighter ignited, and white smoke was blown out.

“Manchester, originally,” he said, intonation hanging. He took another drag of his cigarette before exhaling slowly and adding, “A different world now. You?”

“I've been in the city for years now, but I'm from San Francisco.” You said. “When the chance came up to transfer here from my old opera house back home, I leapt at it. Felt it was time for a fresh start, to spread my wings and live on my own. And maybe get out from under my mom's feet—love her to bits, but she can be a bit much sometimes.”

From your own remarks, you can't help but question if mothers are as harsh on their sons or if this is solely reserved for daughters. Girls are taught to keep close to home and their hearts, while boys are free to roam and explore. Is it any wonder, then, that spreading your wings felt like escaping? You wanted to ask him but ended up lacing your tongue tightly.

The fire's burned low, just embers burning gently in the fireplace. Time passed unnoticed as the two of you sat chatting quietly. But outside, the rain began to subside until it was a fine patter on the roof.

“Storm’s passed, seems.”

As he speaks, you glance up to find his guarded mask has fallen once more into place. The easy openness that had soothed tired nerves now closed again – strangely making you bereft. A feeling of melancholy welled up in your chest at the thought of parting, of kissing away the intimate bubble the two of you had crafted and going back out there into the cold reality where you would be strangers again. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap as you searched for words.

“I suppose you're right… it has eased off some.” Your voice came out small and awkward to your own ears. Licking your dry lips, you added, “thank you, for your company. It was…nice, not to feel alone.”

 He stood up, stretching his tall frame. After this, the spell of the evening will evaporate, and everything will return to the reality of loneliness once again.

“C'mon then, let's get you home,” he said gruffly, offering a hand to help you up. His strong hand envelops your smaller one—rough yet tender, sending warmth through your limbs that have little to do with the fire now dying.

Pushing through the heavy doors, the night air is a contrast to the warmth of the pub. Thick fog covered the streets, rain-slick stones glistening under the street lights. He waved at the first cab that passed—and you prayed it wouldn't stop so you could buy a little more time with him.

It stopped. The night was set to end.

He holds it while you slip inside. Through the open window, your eyes met his; he crouched beside the window, broad shoulders hunched. He's talking to the cab driver, but you can't hear it—not when your heart flutters madly in your breast over a single question. The ache of still not knowing his name. It seems wrong, unfair, that he knows you so well, yet you know nothing of him in return.

The cab lurches into motion, snapping the spell. Panic rises in your throat; you can't let him disappear into the night—to the back of your head like another passerby.

“Wait—please! I don't know your name."

Before you can stop yourself, the words tumble out in a desperate rush.

The second ticks by as you wait. He finds you foolish, for sure—just another desperate, nosy girl who wants to play detective the second she sees a puzzle. The clinginess in your request must have given the impression that you were a fool in love—gullible and name-obsessed.

Something shifts in his dark eyes, and you hope it's a wall crumbling away. Then, in his low rumble – “Simon.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, almost parting your lips in question before—

“Name's Simon,” he repeats.

(And the sun breaks through storm clouds.)

SUPPORT ME THROUGH KO-FI! CHECK MY WRITING COMMISSION.

[coraniaid]

I think there's a problem with my Buffy DVDs. Is anyone else having this issue?

Whenever I go back to watch episodes from the high school seasons I keep seeing these really jarring scenes where a character played by Kristine Sutherland tells a character played by Sarah Michelle Gellar how much she loves her and where she keeps trying to reconnect with her and to find common interests and to understand what she's going through (even though ultimately she can't because other adults in the SMG character's life have sworn her to secrecy and the SMG character's problems are not something anybody could possibly reasonably guess). And in some episodes there are these weird moments where we cut to shots of the Kristine Sutherland character and the SMG character spending time together alone and smiling and hugging, almost as if they enjoy each other's company. Sometimes the Kristine Sutherland character will interact with the SMG character's friends, and they'll all make a point of saying how much they like her and how they wish their own parents were more like she is. And sometimes the Kristine Sutherland character will risk her life to protect the SMG character, or stand up for her against authority figures like her high school principal or the police, or tell her how proud of her she is, or try to comfort her when she's sick or unhappy, or surprise her with presents, or encourage her to imagine a positive future, or offer to fill in for her absentee father when he lets her down [you know, in exactly the way Giles doesn't] all while reassuring her that her parents' divorce wasn't her fault.

It's very confusing. It almost gives me the impression that Kristine Sutherland might deliberately and knowingly be playing Joyce Summers as some sort of complicated, fully rounded character who can't simply be reduced to the role of "good parent" or "bad parent", and that -- like many other supporting characters on the show -- the exact way she behaves varies significantly from episode to episode and from writer to writer. It's almost as if one of the few throughlines throughout the show's run is that, no matter what, Joyce's complicated and imperfect and changing relationship with Buffy is somehow a significant element that should inform the audience's understanding of who Buffy Summers is as a person.

In fact -- and please bear with me, because I know this sounds utterly absurd -- it's almost as if there might be as many as one adult woman on the show who deserves to be granted some of the nuance and sympathy we'd ordinarily only reserve for the sort of people who really deserve it. The Watcher who drugged his Slayer and gaslit her about it even when she came to him in tears (but he was only following orders, so that's okay!), for example, or the unrepentant mass murderers and demons and attempted rapists and all of Buffy's various terrible boyfriends. (Real people, in other words. People with inner lives and agency. You know: men.)

It's almost as if the show expects us to care about Joyce Summers as a person, even though she's committed the unpardonable sin of being a woman over the age of thirty.

But I know this can't be true -- I know these confusing scenes can't be part of the show I'm trying to watch -- because the experts on Tumblr.com have assured me that Joyce is simply a Bad Mother. That she means about as little to Buffy as her deadbeat dad Hank Summers [a character who only appears as himself twice across the whole show and who Buffy never actually says nice things about]. That Joyce is someone who Buffy only ever deludes herself into thinking that she misses after she's dead because she's in some sort of shock and unable to be properly "objective". So I know these characters on my screen can't be Joyce and Buffy -- Buffy can't be telling her mother she loves her as early as the third episode of the show; she's not even close to dead yet! -- they have to be from some other TV series that somehow got mixed up with my copy of Buffy when the DVDs were being produced.

Hence my dilemma. Does anybody know if there's a way I can get the defective discs replaced? My Buffy DVD collection is getting pretty old; is it too late to write in to the manufacturers and ask for a refund? Is this a region-specific problem, and is it likely to happen again if I buy a replacement set? Or should I just give up at this point and settle for the HD remaster?

I'd really love to be able to watch the version of the show where Joyce is simply a Bad Mother [because sometimes she treats Buffy poorly] and Giles is an uncomplicated Good Dad [because sometimes he treats Buffy with kindness] that you're all always talking about, it sounds really ...

... oh, no, sorry, I can't keep up the bit. That version of the show sounds like utter dogshit. Thank fuck it isn't real.

[spngirlpolls]

Funniest plot to mwntion to people whove never seen this show?

They kinda kill god

Theres a musical made about their lives with a tree monster

They go to scoobydoo land for a bit

One of the main characyers runs off with the king of hell for a bit

They kill Hitler/Nazi necromancers

youtine video series style ep about ghosthunters. Corb3tt you will always be famous

Racist ghost car

wax figure killers ft. Paris hilton ig

Thry go into tv land (thisbis not the same as scoobtdoo land)

Idk whoxhever ones you like

this is such a fun idea bc there are SO MANY plot points that are absolutely bewildering both in and out of context. there will def be a part 2 to this but pls add ideas in the notes!

[demigods-posts]

Hey! I want to hear on your thoughts of changing Percy's and poseidon's relationship a little in TV.

I don't know, but Percy's arch falling was kinda ooc in TV. I get it, he is right to be resentful because poseidon is very much deadbeat dad, but him in book leaping in faith was also a moment of agency. If poseidon didn't help him, he would have been naturally been distrustful even more. Maybe it's just me, and but I'm open to other thoughts too.

first and foremost, poseidon wasn't there for percy at all, so percy has every right to be resentful. however, i like to think poseidon does actually care for him, he just doesn't know how to show it in the way that percy needs. as the book series went on and we saw percy and poseidon's relationship grow, we saw poseidon trying to be more and more active in percy's life and be there for him. so in the show, i like to think that him saving percy from that fall was the first step in that direction. thanks for the ask!