#his receding-hairline wig is awful too

[airyairyaucontraire]

Ed Baldwin is trying to eat fettucine with a knife and fork

[lovelyrita1967]

Lucky✨

Geralt closed his eyes and groaned inwardly as his table emptied. Icebreaker. Of course. He fucking hated icebreakers. Why did every conference he went to these days insist he talk to his fellow attendees before they got to the interesting part?

With a deep sigh he cracked his eyes open and looked around, knowing that he would once again be forced to pair up with another person who had shown up without friends or even casual acquaintances to latch onto. But before he could take stock of the people milling around him, a lanky, brown-haired man crashed into the chair next to him. 

“Please go with me!” he whispered furiously, learning forward to grab Geralt’s hand and shake it vigorously. His hand was warm and firm, with long, elegant fingers. “I’m Jaskier,” the man continued loudly, blinking vibrant blue eyes at him. “And you are?” 

Geralt stared blankly at the hopeful smile on Jaskier’s face. Then he noticed a tall, older man with a receding hairline, puffy beard, and sour expression hovering behind Jaskier. 

Jaskier was still shaking his hand, waiting for him to say something. Anything. 

“Uh...Geralt,” he finally managed. Those eyes were so blue. 

Jaskier’s face shone with the most dazzling smile Geralt had ever seen. “A pleasure to meet you, Geralt.” 

His name fell from those lips like a poem.

“So,” Jaskier continued, finally withdrawing his hand. “I believe we are supposed to share the worst job we’ve ever had.” He glanced over his shoulder furtively and visibly relaxed when he saw the bearded man disappearing through the crowd. Geralt expected Jaskier to make his excuses and disappear as well, but instead he turned back and smiled again. “That’s an easy one for me, but would you like to go first?” 

“Um, no,” Geralt replied, flustered. “You go.” 

“Well…” Jaskier said, then paused dramatically as he poured himself a glass of water from the jug in the middle of the table. “I am a musician, you see, so I may have spent a summer dressed as a clown performing at birthday parties for tiny, evil humans.” 

Geralt found himself chuckling, which, as a rule, he did not do. “Cute.” 

“No, it really wasn’t. Picture this: it’s 38 degrees out, approaching 104 under my bright orange clown wig, my makeup is melting down my neck, and I’m forced to sing ‘Baby Shark’ seventeen times while the demons shriek, and the spoiled birthday boy spills lemonade on my guitar and demands I get him some more.” 

Geralt rumbled a low laugh again. “You win.” 

“Oh?” Jaskier arched an eyebrow with a wicked smile. “You concede the title that easily?” 

Geralt’s heart was beating unusually quickly. He nodded, his mouth too dry to speak. He reached for his glass and took a mouthful. 

Jaskier’s tongue darted out and moistened his lips. “Come now, Geralt. You must at least have a contender.” 

“Um, I…” Goddamn it, am I blushing? “One time in university I was totally broke and I… I did some modelling…” Yup, blushing. 

Jaskier’s eyes swept up and down Geralt's figure. His lips quirked. “I can believe that.” He cleared his throat and shifted, picking up his water glass. “Was modelling really so awful?” He took a sip.

“Well… it was nude.” 

Jaskier choked on his water, spraying some onto Geralt’s pants. He coughed and sputtered, putting his glass down and reaching for a napkin. 

“Oh my gods, I am so sorry…” Jaskier rasped, blotting at Geralt’s pants with a tiny, useless cocktail napkin. 

“It’s okay…” Geralt watched Jaskier’s hands on his thighs. “I’m not that wet.” 

Jaskier coughed again, no doubt some residual water in his windpipe. “Nude, you say?” he said in a strangled voice, giving up on the blotting. 

“For an art class… sketching… the human form…” Geralt realized he was not speaking in complete sentences. “Wasn’t so bad, just… awkward… and cold… and hard not to move… I just did it one time.” 

“Mmm. No doubt a day forever etched in the memories of those fortunate students.” 

Geralt hadn’t blushed this much in his entire life, but he was saved from having to reply by the emcee asking people to return to their seats. “Well…” he looked at Jaskier, wondering why there was an ache of disappointment in his chest. 

“Yes. I’d better go.” Jaskier nodded and stood. “Thanks for rescuing me. That guy wasn’t taking no for an answer at the hotel bar last night. And… sorry about your pants.” 

Geralt nodded back. “No problem. For both.” He rubbed at a damp patch on his thigh.

Jaskier smiled softly. “See you ‘round, Geralt.” 

Geralt watched him go with a pang. It’s a three-day conference, he consoled himself. It was massive, but… he might see Jaskier again, if he was lucky. 

Jaskier was sitting somewhere far behind him in the huge hall, so when the opening keynote began, Geralt couldn’t sneak any glances his way. It was with a jolt when he stood up at the lunch break and Jaskier appeared next to him. 

His hands fiddled with the strap of his laptop bag. “Can I buy you lunch?” Jaskier gave him a shy, hopeful smile.

Geralt felt his heart flutter. “It’s included.” 

“Well, then, aren’t I lucky?”

“No,” Geralt tilted his head. “I am.”  

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

If you liked this, you can check out my other Geraskier romcoms (or smut or other rare pairs) here on AO3. 💕💕💕

@oxbridge-quality-fanfiction-co @geraskierficrecs @ro-the-bard-writer @marvagon @carmillacarmine @ikeptupwiththejoneses @rawrkinjd @fangirleaconmigo @jaskierswolf @lottelorelei @gilbert-von-kneecap @sharingfandomsilove @chaotic-bard @gosh-diddley-darnit @benisalilbitch @distractedbyfandoms @bardic-charm @bastardofmothman @watchthewolvesfall @panerato @fontegagrilledcheese​ @ewanspotter @spacewitchqueen @peanitbear @dapandapod​ @stinastar @round--robin @tee-aitch-official @killedbylawstudies @llamasdumpsterfire​ @tempy-the-tempest​ @sarah-midnight​ @actionnerdgamerlove​ @artemisiatodd​ @planetesastraea​ (Let me know if you want on/off the tag list!)

[thezfc]

To the Anon saying that he just needs a better wig. He needs to retire from this role. Loki is an immortal god alien yet he has wrinkles and a receding hairline. I'm not trying to be ageist but he no longer looks the part, he's a couple of years away from looking like Richard E. Grant. Also some of his acting in the Loki show were not good, I could tell he's not into it anymore especially since the shows script was awful. He has his time to shine in 2012, it's time to move on from this role.

He might be immoral but not ageless. I mean I want him to move on from Loki too but Odin aged (and died), and no one says Hemsworth is too old to play Thor.

[ohblackdiamond]

life and life only (paul/victoria) (pg-13) (part 11 of ?)

part 1 | part 2 |  part 3  | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11

Mermaid AU. Paul lives in isolation in a sunken ship with his sister, until a new mer comes by to see his ship, and he starts to reassess the human world. In this chapter: Paul and Gene recruit Peter and Ace for what becomes KISS. Ace happens to be a mer.

More than a year passed. Gene had gotten his bachelor’s, and a teaching job. Odd as it was, Paul hated that for him. Gene was better than a teaching job. It would be like… like Victoria working in a shirt shop. All that monotony was for lesser creatures. Not for the bright and defiant. Gene didn’t deserve to get snuffed out and stuck in that awful nine to five, or six, or seven, that Mr. and Mrs. Eisen had resigned themselves to so long ago. 

But Gene didn’t really complain. He saw everything as a stepping stone.

“You see, Paul” (he never called him Stan again, even on accident), “if you can control twenty-five sixth-graders, you can control a whole ballroom of drunks. Maybe even a whole stadium. All this is, is practice.”

Paul wished he felt the same way. He was still driving cabs, although he’d added on a handful of hours at a Jewish deli, slicing sandwich meat. The owner was so conservative that he made Paul stuff his hair under a wig before he’d let him man the counter. Paul kept being tempted to quit the deli, but Gene insisted the extra money would come in handy soon enough.

“It’s time for us to get a new band,” he said, after an evening of fooling around with tunes on their acoustic guitars, an evening just like the hundreds of others they’d had. “Write out an ad for a drummer. I’ll proofread.”

Gene had no faith in Paul’s ability to spell, and very little faith in his ability to write. Paul was surprised he’d pawned off the ad on him.

“We’ll need a lead guitarist, too. I’m not that great, and you’re better at bass.”

“Drummer first. We want one with experience.”

“Why?”

“Because he’ll have his own kit. That’ll save us hundreds.” He said it like they had never had a drummer before. Gene’s smile was a little wolfish. “Besides, guitarists are a dime a dozen. If we really have to, we can use Bob.”

Bob was a friend of Gene’s from way back at yeshiva. He was only two years older than Paul, and already going bald. Great guitarist, awful look. Given how fat Gene was, Paul didn’t want to destroy the rock and roll image any further by adding in a receding hairline.

“Hang on.” Paul glanced through the Village Voice ads. Maybe there was a post there already that fit the bill. “This guy says he has fifteen years’ experience. Is that too much?”

“Only if he’s forty.” Gene leaned over, looking over Paul’s shoulder at the ad. “A guy like that’s been around. We’ll need that.”

Paul nodded, trying not to get too excited. The band they’d had before, and the rough attempts at groups and jam sessions, and even that one demo, all of that had basically been with friends and acquaintances. Seeking someone out cold was new.

“I can call tomorrow. He’s probably busy--”

“I’ll call right now.” Gene was already snatching up the Village Voice and crossing the room for the phone. “I’ve got a great feeling about this guy.”

--

This guy turned out to be a man named Peter. He was twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, with prematurely-graying hair that made him look older. He was short and skinny, except for his arms, and had guileless dark brown eyes set in a small-featured face. Not really very attractive, but then, a drummer didn’t have to be.

Peter also had a wife of several years, and a recurring gig at a restaurant that he quit as soon as Gene and Paul invited him into their makeshift band. He had a temper, too, cultivated, probably, by year after year of watching other bands make it, while real success eluded him.

Paul decided he liked Peter despite his temper, and even despite his frequent threats to quit the band. Maybe because they were really only a burst of emotion, a bid for attention. Like dangling a rattle in front of a wailing toddler, a little placating and Peter was fine again.

He was a high school dropout, and made occasional comments about Gene’s college education and Paul’s alleged art school.

“You can’t spell any better than I can,” he pointed out once, peering over Paul’s shoulder as he scrawled another set of lyrics. “So much for that school of yours.”

“Well, I didn’t go much. I almost flunked out.” Omar Medlin had only managed to procure a transcript that put Eisen, Stanley B. at nearly the bottom of his graduating class. Judging from how poorly his mer education stacked up against a human one, that seemed about right. “Gene told me he had sixth graders smarter than me.”

That appeared to appease Peter. He nodded, then he smiled.

“I just hate that shit, y’know? I hate feeling like anyone’s so goddamn superior ’cause of where they’re from or where they went. This is America, right? Who the fuck cares? That Gene, he… he high-hats me all the time. He’s fucking laughing at me.”

“He laughs at everyone.”

“Why the hell do you put up with it out of him?”

Paul had never thought about it. He scratched out another line of bad lyrics and shrugged.

“Because he doesn’t really mean it. He says things just to get a rise out of people. You gotta give it right back to him.”

“You don’t.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Don’t ever let anybody walk all over you, Paul. Not even him.” Peter’s mouth pursed. “I been around, man.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. My best friend just got in the New York Dolls.”

Paul couldn’t help but perk up.

“I’ve seen them.”

“I bet you have.” Peter didn’t sound angry so much as frustrated. “Jerry’s going places. Fuck, he’s gone places. He’s been with a bunch of bands.”

“So’ve you.”

“But I never made it. You keep paying your dues and you don’t get any bread outta it. I was passing out business cards on my honeymoon. Trying to get contacts. Poor Lyd, she…” Peter trailed, shutting his eyes for a second. “I didn’t wanna keep living off her like this. Ten bucks a night wouldn’t keep a dog alive.”

Victoria shoved his way into his head for the first real time in ages. He’d turned it over, how it would’ve been if he’d gone with her. Her going from role to role, maybe (he’d seen nothing about her in the newspapers since Vanishing Point); him trying for stardom himself. They probably would’ve ended up no better than Peter and Lydia. Maybe worse.

“We’re gonna make it. A lead guitarist is all we need now.”

Peter smiled again.

“You think so?”

“Sure.” Gene thought so, which was the important thing. “We’re gonna be big stars.”

--

Gene had Paul write out the ad for the lead guitarist (“album coming out soon, no time-wasters please”), but they ended up holding auditions in the rat-infested loft they rented as practice space. The handful of people who showed weren’t fantastic, so Paul was on the verge of giving up and letting Bob in the band after all, balding or no. Bob was getting in his audition just for the sake of fairness, as if they hadn’t all heard him play two dozen times before. Paul wasn’t paying much attention.

He was starting to lose faith, really. Had been ever since Gene took that teaching job. Two and a half years in the human world now, two and a half years of trying to make it, to be what Victoria was, or what he’d thought she was. To conjure up that audience, to bury every hurt of his life in their adulation. Two and a half years and he’d only traded in his tail for legs and his cabin for a rented room. He’d had the opportunity to fill in the blanks of his new life, but apart from Gene and the not-quite-band, his life on land was no more meaningful than his life in the sea. Maybe even less so. At least in the sea he’d had his garden. Progress to track. Growth. He felt like he was just existing ashore.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw another guy, slightly taller than him, skinny and mustached, walk into the loft and plug in his guitar, right next to Bob, who was still auditioning. Bob had a good sound. He could make the guitar emote far more than Paul could. He just didn’t feel right or look right. He just wasn’t--

One chord. Another. Then a sudden, golden rush of notes from the new guy, while Bob tried to finish up on the “Stairway to Heaven” guitar solo, mouth pressed in a tight line. Bob was looking his and Gene and Peter’s way, naturally, trying to get any of them to say something--

“C’mon, man,” Gene finally spoke up. “You’re not gonna let him finish?”

The guy didn’t answer. He didn’t seem to have heard. Bob finished. The guy, meanwhile, did a couple more riffs that sounded like a warm-up, then plunged into something Paul hadn’t heard before, something that must have been his own work. The guy’s playing had an edge to it, a swagger, that Bob’s didn’t. The sound was part Zeppelin and part Stones and part Hendrix. Sloppy, untamed. Better than what Paul could do. This guy made it look easy.

Paul took a step closer, and then the guy looked up, eyes suddenly going wide. Smile going wider. He stopped playing immediately, reaching his hand up and clasping Paul’s, lacing their fingers together in greeting, and Paul realized, dumbstruck, who he was.

Because he knew him. He did know him. Or he’d seen him, at least, in the market those times he’d gone in place of Julia, and around the ship he lived on. The Leonard Richards, if Paul remembered correctly. He might’ve spoken to him no more than four or five times, if that. Paul didn’t even know his name, just his face, the odd dark eyes and prominent nose. But it didn’t matter.

“You’re Stanley, yeah? How the hell did you end up here?”

“Paul.”

“I’m Paul,” the mer said, then shrugged. “Well, whatever. You can call me Ace.”

“You sure about that?”

“Oh, sure.” He was giving up his name like it was an afterthought, something he could toss away in an instant. “Shit, I haven’t seen another--”

Paul waved his arm. Ace belatedly got the message.

“Okay, okay. I won’t blow it.”  He seemed to belatedly realize Gene and Peter were standing there, and Bob, all of whom looked awkward. “Look, I--”

“You know this guy, Paul?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re great, man!” Peter, reaching over and grabbing Ace’s hand. Paul could feel the confusion radiating from Ace as he took his hand back. Ace kept trying to twine their fingers together the same way Paul had two years before, when Victoria had introduced him to the cast of Hair. “Sounded like Hendrix. Fucking incredible.”

“Thanks.”

“How long you been playing?”

“Couple years,” Ace said. His attention, predictably, was on Paul. “I saw that ad. I didn’t call ahead.”

“Nobody else did, either. You got a number?” Gene rummaged around until he found the audition list. Ace scrawled his number down.

“We’ll do callbacks within the next day or two,” Gene added, in an attempt at being professional that might almost have worked, if Paul hadn’t caught the excited gleam in Gene’s eye. Bob’s mouth kept twitching as he quietly put his guitar back in its case, and left without a word. Ace just grinned.

“Sounds great. I’ll see you later.” Ace put up his guitar and picked up his lone, cheap amp, heading out the door. Even if Paul hadn’t eventually recognized him, his walk would have given him away. He wasn’t stiff-- instead, he just stumbled, toes turned inward instead of outward, for the whole length of their room, and out the door.

“He’s drunk as a skunk,” Gene groused.

“He’s not drunk,” Paul protested. “I bet he had polio as a kid.”

“I’ve never seen someone with polio walk like that.”

“He looks Oriental. Maybe he’s from Japan or China.” Peter sounded excited. “That guy that was in the Association, he’s the only rock guy I’ve ever seen that was--”

“He’s not Oriental, either.”

“How’d you know him, Paulie?”

“He used to live near me a long time ago. I really don’t know him that well.”

“You want him in the band, right? He’s better than Bob,” Peter said. Paul had expected Peter to be a little more sensitive to turning Bob down, but Ace seemed to intrigue him too much to be concerned with Bob’s feelings.

“Course I want him.” Paul turned to Gene. “Gene?”

“I still think he’s drunk,” Gene said. “But he’s the best one. We’re calling him tonight.”

--

They called Ace that night. Once Gene and Peter had left, Paul called Ace back again himself, asking him to come a half hour earlier than scheduled for their first practice session.

“I can’t fucking believe it,” Ace said, as Paul unlocked the door to their loft and let him inside. “The last kid from that old ship, right here in New York. What are the odds?”

“Well--”

“I mean, shit, I’d heard you left after your sister but I didn’t really think it was true. You were always hiding from everybody, anyway.” It should’ve been insulting, but Ace was so blithely candid, and so excited to see another mer at all, that it was hard for Paul to be offended. “I remember kids used to sneak over to your ship after your mom died. Thought it was haunted. Your sister used to throw things at ’em from the portholes.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“You seemed like you were gonna stick around forever.”

“I wanted to.”

“Didja really?” Ace tilted his head. “How long do you have until you get landlocked?”

“Seven years, five months.”

“Got a lot of time to change your mind.” He stretched his arms, then took a seat on a broken amplifier. “I didn’t start living here all the time until a couple months ago. I’d been turning it over for years, y’know, but--”

“What made you decide?”

“My girlfriend. She’s a human.”

Paul couldn’t help himself. He felt his mouth droop down at the words. Ace had done what he hadn’t. Taken a risk on someone that loved him.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t give me that look, man. I met her when we were about fifteen. Kept putting her off, told her, maybe next year, maybe next year… she was getting tired of waiting on me.”

“I hope she’s worth it,” Paul said stiffly.

“’S not just her, though.” Ace continued. “There’s a lot more out here. All the opportunities--”

“But you’re losing out.”

“On what? Watching everybody else leave?”

“On what you are.”

Ace’s expression darkened just a little.

“You lose out on what you are whether you got legs or a tail,” he said. “You’re gonna get worn down regardless. Paulie--”

“You’re just justifying it.”

“’M not. C’mon, I would’ve thought a guy like you would understand.” Ace cracked his knuckles absentmindedly. “Besides, if you think things are so bad over here, what’re you doing getting a band together?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why not do what they do? Go to school, get a trade. Be like them.” Ace waved his arm like all of Queens lay just beyond the ratty loft. 

“Because I don’t want to be like them. I want to be a star.”

Ace smiled.

“You don’t think that’s losing out? Stars got a short shelf-life,” he said.

“I don’t care. I want it. I think we’re gonna get it this time.”

“Your ad said there was an album coming out soon.” Ace stretched again. “Didn’t have a lead guitarist, but you got an album coming out?”

“We will.”

“All righty, Paulie. I’ll hold you to it.”

[attractionlaws1]

Our Crowning Glory

Our Crowning Glory

  Men's hairstyles, like fashion trends, come and go. Throughout the years, history has viewed some exquisite patterns which tend to outlive those who wear them. In days gone by, having it long was prestigious. King Louis XIV posed for images and made public appearances carrying a dark brown long wig. Nicknamed 'Le Chevelu', due to the fact of his longer hair than most of his predecessors, King Chlodio V's hair was once a symbol of status. While Royalty enjoyed their long, decrease type citizens, as well as slaves, wore it short or shaved their heads. Throughout the ages, men's hair modified fashion rapidly, usually following music trends, like The Beatles' Mop Tops. A fashion adopted via terrible boys was once the pompadour, made famous by way of Elvis Presley and James Dean. Jimi Hendrix gave us the Afro. Bob Marley the dreadlocks, while Bob Dylan made the matted look, desirable. For those who didn't give theirs an awful lot importance, Albert Einstein's style, which made his 'mad scientist' persona a legend, was adopted. Hair, declared as our crowning glory, is vital for men. It represents you! The first issue humans observe when they seem at you is your hair. Of course, it is something definitely exclusive if you have none at all! This opens up a completely new perspective, but there is help at hand... wigs. The variety of styles, length, and colour to pick from are endless, and these can even be tailor-made, supplying one can dig deep sufficient into ones' pockets. For a man, having a full head of hair is vital. It makes him sense good, builds an experience of confidence, and possibly even of superiority. His probabilities of pulling girls are considered greater than these of his bald counterpart. Is the leading actor in a chick flick ever bald? Apart from bald being regarded as a sign of toughness, this has many advantages, like no longer desiring to go to the barber, hairdresser, or stylist. Not to mention all the cash that a man can retailer on related products. When each minute in the morning counts, a bald man will, in reality, have greater time at his disposal. Many men, even if no longer born with it, will grow a high-quality head of hair during their teens. It is a time to be adventurous, a time to attempt countless special patterns to specific attitudes, make statements, be fashionable, or just to imitate their favourite pop idols. A man's hair, to some extent, dictates who he is and how he sees himself. This relationship can be a very touchy and subtle one. For those with a receding hairline or the appearance of patches, mainly at an early age, can be a depressing, traumatic, and suicidal moment. For humans like Jason Statham and Bruce Willis, thinning hair or baldness has no negative impact on them at all. Just like many well-known people, they discovered a coiffure that worked, a buzz cut, where the hair is cut very short. Unfortunately, the passage of time takes its toll on our crowning glory in greater approaches than one. The changing of its shade to grey, even if some women discover this 'salt-and-pepper' seem to be very attractive, annoys most guys as it is a signal that their exceptional years are at the back of them. Accepting defeat is now not an alternative for the vain, and bravely try to cover their developing greyness through dying it, or via committing the best taboo... shaving it all off. The demand on the hair industry is so great, hairdressers and stylists have appeared at nearly each road corner. Short hair can be beautiful, simply as lots as long hair is, whatever the style, colour, or availability. Whatever the case, existence is too quick to fear about such matters, so 'let your hair down', if you still have any, and enjoy lifestyles to the max. Read the full article