#i wish i stuck to weed and psychedelics

[clownpassing]

Is it covid, random ick, or c0k3 drip? Who knows!

[bobbybutterfly]

@psychedelic-charm this one’s for you!

For the last couple of days I didn’t know what to draw. So it was nice to get your response.

Like I’ve mentioned in the last post I finally gave Cancer a nation. He’s Plains Cree. I think I specifically chose Plains Cree because some live in Montana. I imagine the story of the Zodiacs takes place in a fictional small American town. I don’t plan on making any comic or stories with these guys but if I would it would be a normal teen soap opera, except everyone has superpowers. Maybe I would keep the antagonists…

It is a bit unrealistic that such a diverse group lives in a small far off town. But then again. They have literal superpowers. So I don’t think that’s the biggest issue when it comes to realism LOL. Like for example Cancer here is a shape shifter. In the Li Speaks video she mentioned it would be ideal to change the talking to animals superpower. I thought it would be good to take inspiration from the Cree mythology. And shapeshifting is something I saw a lot.

I ended up taking inspiration for Cancer’s backstory from the story of Aayaase. It has a very dream like feel to it.

CW: drug abuse, domestic abuse

Cancer grew up in an abusive low income household. His biological father ran off. His mother and stepfather were both opioid addicts. His stepfather also drank a lot and took out his anger on Cancer’s mom. Cancer was very protective over her. Crying so much that several times police was called over. His stepfather decided he had enough of 10 year old Cancer one day. He sat him in the pickup truck and went into the middle of nowhere. Where he kicked out the small kid and drove off.

Cancer was stuck in an endless forest all alone. It was getting dark. He started crying. A fox heard him and curled up next to him to keep him warm. He wished to be a fox himself. And in the morning, he found his wish turned true. He liked wondering through the forest. Playing in the fallen leaves and chewing on sticks. A few days passed before he met with the fox again. She led him out of the forest to his grandma’s house. He was about to turn around and go back when his grandma grabbed him:

“I’ve made pancakes. But I’m only serving to humans.”

Almost at the snap of a finger he turned back into a boy. His grandma ruffled his hair as he gobbled up 3 pancakes at once, “I think I’ll keep you from now on. It’s nice to have someone appreciate your cooking.”

Since then it’s been 7 years. His grandma isn’t rich. Living in a mobile home for which she has to pay the landlord almost all her pension. But what she lacks in money, she more than makes up in love for her grandson. Cancer isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed. He has several learning disabilities and PTSD. He goes to therapy and has an assistant at school. Aries feels very protective over him. Treating Cancer as his little brother. Even though Cancer’s only 3 months younger and almost 2 heads taller than him.

However when Cancer likes something he puts all his energy into it. He works part time at an animal rescue shelter. He even rescued that frog from the science class (I liked that small detail from the original Cancer bio). He takes him everywhere in his pocket. The way his shapeshifting ability works is that he has to touch the animal and want to transform. This includes turning into a human. He does keep his clothes! I dunno. They’re counted as fur. He keeps his frog with him so if he’s scared he can turn and hop away.

Other than that he spends most of his day on World of Warcraft 3 and RuneScape. When Aries comes over, which he does a lot, they watch South Park and smoke weed from a plastic bottle. Cancer’s grandma doesn’t understand video games, always covers her ears when South Park is on and sometimes takes a puff of the weed before stealing their whole stash and selling it. She forces the boys to learn things like how to do beading and make moccasins. At first they complained a lot, but now they genuinely like it.

She’s even teaching them the language. Even though Aries isn’t Cree she does consider him a part of the family. He also learns faster than Cancer and then helps him out. They’re just a cute little bunch.

Lastly Cancer makes music. He doesn’t have any instruments. Instead he turns into animals and records himself. To most people it sounds like a bunch of noise (that’s why he’s hesitant to show it off) but those that get it, really get it.

And there we have it. Another Zodiac redesign. That’s all the girls that didn’t age well. Though I do have ideas for what I could do with the other girls. I even did a couple of room designs. So keep your eyes peeled for that!

[dovebuffy92]

Spoilers Below

INTRODUCTION

In Euphoria Season Two Episode Two,” Out of Touch,” directed and written by creator Sam Levinson, Rue Bennett (Zendaya) continues her “suicide mission” under the radar of her girlfriend, Jules Vaughn (Hunter Schafer), and Cassie Howard’s (Sydney Sweeney) desire for love leads her down an equally destructive path.

Kat Hernandez (Barbie Ferreira), Nate Jacobs (Jacob Elordi), and many other main characters have fantasies that expose their desires or anxieties. For example, Kat falls into a well of self-hatred because she can’t understand why she wishes that her boyfriend, Ethan Lewis (Austin Abram), wasn’t so sweet. She imagines a Drogo-type (a from Game of Thrones) warrior raping her after killing Ethan.

The episode begins with Nate being treated for his injuries while fantasizing about his potential “perfect” life with Cassie. Cal Jacobs (Eric Dane) learns that drug dealer Fezco (Angus Cloud) beat his son up. Nate finally tells his father, Cal, that he knows about him having sex with Jules. Lexi Howard (Maude Apatow) attempts to use her voice to save Fezco from Cal, but the father arrives before she can warn him. Thankfully Fezco comes out of the encounter unharmed.

Cassie’s anxiety rises as she gets stuck between her best friend Maddie Perez (Alex Demie) and the dangerous Nate. Jules’ jealously and depression is triggered after meeting Rue’s new friend, druggy musician Elliot (Dominic Fike).

RUE’S “SUICIDE MISSION”

“Out of Touch” explores Rue’s harmful patterns that hurt everybody in her life. Rue and Jules seeing each other for the first time in the episode play out like “Trying to Get to Heaven Before They Close the Door.” Everything goes black around the couple as they stare at each other across the high school hallway. Then cut to a close-up shot of Rue and Jules making out, revealing how they are absorbed into one another. Rue’s narration says she has everything that she ever wished for. When Rue and Jules eventually disconnect, they are both smiling. They flirt with one another. However, everything changes when Rue spots Elliot.

Rue continues to kiss Jules, but she is distracted by Elliot. Rue worries that Elliot may mess everything up in the narration by mentioning how they have been taking hard drugs together. The viewer can see the worried expression on her face as she thinks through possible scenarios. Rue doesn’t even hear Jules saying, “I love you” to her. Finally, Jules snaps her out of her deep thought, and Rue says, “I love you” back, but it’s clear that her double life is already biting her in the butt.

Elliot doesn’t mention that Rue has relapsed, but the awkward introduction between him and Jules damages their relationship. Later, Rue and Jules fight about the introduction. Jules’ feelings are hurt after the meeting because she thinks Rue has a crush on Elliot. She can tell something fishy is going on. Rue denies any attraction to her friend, but she can’t blow off the fact that she awkwardly pretended not to remember that she met him at the New Year’s party. Rue can’t explain without admitting she snorted cocaine, which would lead to her receiving real help for her problems. She leaves Jules feeling down and jealous of Elliot.

Why Drugs?

Rue uses her depression and anxiety disorder as an excuse to take drugs. She thinks she needs drugs to function like an average person, even if it eventually kills her. Elliot is a fellow drug addict who earns a lot of money from selling his music online. Enough money to supply drugs for Rue and himself. Their friendship is destructive. Elliot and Rue listen to records, play the guitar, smoke weed, and snort cocaine together. Both Elliot and her sponsor Ali to call Rue out on her self-destructive behavior.

Before attending an NA meeting, Rue chills at Elliot’s house. They listen to 1960’s psychedelic music while smoking weed. Rue talks about how she thinks that loss is a “bigger feeling” than love mentioning how her father died from cancer. Her fear of losing Jules leaves her unable to be present with her girlfriend. During their conversation, Elliot asks if she feels that their friendship is positive. Rue answers yes, but Elliot believes their toxic to one another. Finally, Rue says that she is okay with the toxicity, revealing how little she thinks of her life.

When Ali sees an out-of-it Rue coming up the stairs in a wheelchair lift to a NA meeting, he mentions how he sees that the teenager is still on her “suicide mission.” Rue’s drug use and lies will eventually lead to her death and the destruction of her loved ones. Yet, she doesn’t care if she lives or dies.

CASSIE’S POISONOUS LOVE

Cassie’s goals for the new year are reasonable but quickly unravel. In the last episode, Cassie talked about how she wants to be single to allow her some time for self-healing. During “Out of Touch,” Maddie comments how she doesn’t buy it because her best friend “loves to be loved.” Cassie asks her how not to act out her desires. Maddie answers that she should say no when she wants to say yes. Then there are a series of flashbacks to Cassie saying yes to Nate when he asks if she wants a ride, to go to the bathroom with him, and can keep them having sex a secret. She acts like she can’t help herself like Rue.

After having sex with Nate at the New Years’ party, Cassie falls into a deep depression and an addiction to her best friend’s ex-boyfriend. She stops showering, wears sweats instead of her usual stylish clothing, and doesn’t clean her side of the bedroom. Instead of going on a “spiritual journey,” Cassie spends her days freaking out about Maddie finding out the truth and needing comfort from Nate. After Nate mentions how Maddie would kill her for having sex with him, Cassie fantasies all the different ways that her best friend will kill her.

Nate and Cassie barely know each other, but they’re almost addicted to one another. Nate hasn’t even had a date with her and is already imagining them having a family together. He has replaced Maddie with Cassie as his good “normative” influence but is stuck in this perverse love square. Nate still desires Jules but buries it deep within himself because he sees attraction to a trans woman as depraved. He doesn’t want to be like his “weak” father. Cassie’s need for adoration leads her to entice Nate into a “sex-game” chase to stop him from ending their romance even though she knows he can be abusive.

LAST THOUGHTS

Will Jules figure out Rue has relapsed before her girlfriend dies? Can Rue or Cassie clean up their acts in time? Let us know your thoughts about Euphoria Season Two Episode Two in the comments below.

[wevegottogetaway]

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone. 

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind. 

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and  a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?" 

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins. 

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-" 

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

                                                       ***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.  

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it. 

                                                       ***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm. 

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!" 

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before. 

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place. 

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?" 

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me." 

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?" 

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation." 

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order. 

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

                                                        ***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once. 

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test. 

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

                                                       ***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

                                                         ***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in? 

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

                                                       ***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming  and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer. 

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether. 

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides. 

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics. 

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that. 

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence." 

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!" 

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming. 

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go. 

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits. 

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows. 

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

                                                       ***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place). 

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm. 

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why. 

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop  for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes. 

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head. 

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

                                                       ***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her. 

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building. 

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant. 

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know. 

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be. 

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them  however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place." 

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection. 

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’." 

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is. 

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper. 

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n." 

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own. 

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear. 

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink. 

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his. 

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."  

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?" 

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words. 

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss. 

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans. 

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right." 

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?" 

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek. 

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead. 

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties." 

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra.  Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach. 

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips. 

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment. 

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways. 

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good." 

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough." 

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths. 

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness. 

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?" 

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering. 

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly. 

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind. 

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell. 

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry  doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused. 

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."  

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was." 

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference. 

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

[bambieves]

[ bambi. timothee chalamet. twenty. cis-male. he/him. ] was that just BUCKLEY FORRESTER ? always easily noticed due to always having A BUG CATCHING NET on their person. BUCKLEY / “ BAMBI ” currently reside in FIGURE 8, and in that time have managed to gain the reputation of THE FOREST DWELLER, but that could also be due to being OUTGOING AND ADVENTUROUS & SELF-CONSCIOUS AND ANXIOUS.

GENERAL INFO

Name : Buckley Forrester Jr. ( yes, he’s a junior . )

Nicknames : Bambi , nickname given to him by his mom that just stuck with him.

Age : Twenty

Sexuality : Pansexual

Residence : Figure 8

Gender : cis-male , he/him

Likes : reading, plants, long car rides, swimming, weed & psychedelics.

Dislikes : pineapple on pizza , pools , shoes , & littering 

Positive : friendly, curious, goofy, romantic, loyal ,

Negative : self-conscious, moody, pessimistic , pretentious, stubborn .

BIOGRAPHY 

* TRIGGER WARNING FOR PARENTAL DEATH & PTSD

As a child, Buckley or Bambi as his mother lovingly called him, was always a happy and carefree child. Full of curiosity and wonder, he would always get himself into trouble around the island. Yet everyone knew him to be a kind young boy who brought joy with him everywhere he went. The forest was Bambi’s second home. His backyard was an open space into the island’s rich ecosystem and he spent hours getting lost in it’s wonder.  

When Bambi was eight, his mother was was murdered in a home invasion. They were both cuddling, reading in bed together when they heard a strange noise coming from the front door. His father wasn’t supposed to be home for another two weeks when strange voices soon shocked and soon revealed that this was an invasion. His mother hurried to call the police only for the invaders to fatality shot her. Since then, Bambi had struggled with night terrors and severe anxiety. 

Bambi was never really the same after that. He began to retreat into himself and grew much more jaded. Despite all the counciling, he blames himself for his mother’s death. His mother had been his best friend and the only one who he felt truly understood him. The two were extremely similar, soft spoken and creative. Appreciative of the literature and poetry and a great fondness for nature. All things his father loved about his dearest Fawna, now all the traits he sees in his son are far too painful. The two have a very strained relationship and struggle to even make simple dinner conversation.

His failure and mistakes plague him, constantly second-guessing the correct course of action - Bambi never wants to let anyone down again. He knows what his father sees him as - weak, spineless, cowardly. All things Bambi sees in himself. He longs to be more than what he is, someone who his father can be proud of, someone who he can look in the mirror and not pick apart. While he wishes his father would be the parent he misses, he knows that those late night at the office are just another excuse so he doesn’t have to deal with him.

MORE TO COME !

WANTED CONNECTIONS

Best friend : These two met as soon on one of Bambi’s many expeditions in the forest. I imagine these two as childhood friend, but they don’t necessarily have to - either way, the two just hit it off. They bring out the best in each other, his friend pushes Bambi to be more confident while Bambi brings the other one down to earth. 

Ex-girlfriend : This person taught Bambi how to trust and love another person again but they also taught him his first lesson in heartbreak. I can see them being on good terms but…..bad terms would be v fun, or good terms but messy break up mayhaps??

Unrequited crush : this person likely knows that Bambi’s had a crush on them since like forever. But they see him as nothing more than a friend , maybe they take advantage of the fact he’ll do anything to win their affection or simply just don’t want to hurt his feelings. Either way, give me some drama where he’s getting led on !

Graveyard friends : This person also lost someone very close to them and they often see Bambi at the local graveyard visiting his mother. They likely heard Bambi having a hard time as he spoke aloud to his mother and the other stepped in to give their two cents. Since then the two are always there for one another when they’re having a particularly hard time.

other ideas include … someone who just rubs him the wrong way , bickering friends who just need to kiss already , trip sitter , mom friend, first guy kiss , one night stand , dealer / plug , community college classmate , bad first date, and ill think of more later lol

[sunflowerhazzavol6]

Cherry

A/N- Heres little quarantine blurb! Since it seems we’re all stuck in this shitty social distancing situation, might as well pretend you’re getting high with Harry ;) marijuana usage (ofc) with a little angst and a whole lot of fluff!

“Make me a sandwich?” Harry asks, not even glancing up from his very important activity of picking at his fingernails.

Y/n laughs a bit from the kitchen, watching as the water from the tap fills up her glass. “If I wasn’t so damn bored I would call you out on how sexist that sounds. Do you actually want one or are you just joking?”

“Only kidding.” He sighs, staring at his socked feet on the coffee table in front of him. He wiggles them just to be sure that they’re real, that he’s in fact still alive and not a sack of bones and skin on the sofa. He lets out an exasperated yell as he throws his head back, looking from the top of his eyes at his girlfriend across the room. She snorts a laugh, moving to stand behind him and play with his hair. “I’m going to lose it if I don’t get out of here, I swear, y/n.”

“Mhm. So remind me again, what position was it that you took last week when I told you that you were a bit hyperactive?”

“That I wasn’t?”

“Funny how that played out.”

Harry rolls his eyes and reaches back to pinch her side in annoyance before sitting up and turning around to face her. He liked the way she looked now. Y/n was usually very invested in fashion and her appearance- she was like him in that way. They both liked to express themselves through what they wore and how they carried themselves. But she was absolutely stunning as she was right now- his Fleetwood Mac t-shirt brushing against the swell of her thigh, black leggings traveling down to her ankles. He especially loved when she kept her hair like this, unstyled and wavy, unruly due to the constant laying around the house. He sighs a bit in appreciation, tugging on a small curl by her shoulder.

“I hate to say it, but i’m also tired of having sex even.”

Y/n seems to sigh in relief, and he laughs. “I know. Isn’t that awful? It’s not that the sex is bad-”

“...by any means…”

“It’s just that you can only do the same activity so many times in a day, you know?”

“I know.” He smiles, wrapping his arms around her middle. “At least we won’t get the Quarantine 15.” This draws a laugh from her belly, and he can’t help but to feel a sense of pride in that he caused it with little effort. They really were delirious from the isolation.

“And I feel so guilty.” Her arms slide around his shoulders as she hooks her fingers into the curls at the back of his neck. “Because we’re at your place and it's a literal mansion, and loads of other people are in far worse conditions than we are.” He turns his head to kiss her forearm while she rants, listening intently. “I’m in a literal HGTV dream home and I’m complaining, how awful is that?”

“Not awful. It doesn’t matter where you are, being cut off from your routine and normal human interaction sucks.” He shrugs. “Even when you’re with your sex god boyfriend.” Harry grins before pulling her over the edge of the couch and into his lap, causing her to spill her water all over his shirt.

“Harry!” She scolds, giggling and standing up to examine the damage on her own outfit. He smiles at her reaction, lifting her soaked shirt to gently kiss her stomach, just above her belly button. She pulls the wet fabric over his head, making him laugh and kiss again before blowing cold air against skin to make her squeal like he knew she would. He pulls himself out from under her clothing and grins at her boyishly, squeezing his hands on her waist.

“Bloody hell, I’m so in love with you. Want to share a joint?”

His girlfriend snorts at his inability to focus on one thing at a time, pushing his hair from his forehead and kissing the skin it exposes. She was secretly grateful for this social distancing, because it meant there was no way Harry could cut his hair. It was quite close to the length that made him look like a prince out of a fairy tale, and there was no way she could pass an opportunity like that up. “I’d love to. I love you. You roll?”

He giggles giddily as he bounces up from his spot on the couch, his soaked shirt at the far back of his mind by now. “I love it when you talk weed to me!” He calls over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall. She follows him, peeling off her own shirt and pinching his ass as they walk into his bedroom.

“You know, I quite like that shirt on you. Almost makes me wish I wouldn’t have gotten you all wet.” He winks before going to his bedside table and pulling out a small box. Y/n rolls her eyes, grabbing his ‘women are smarter’ shirt and putting it on. “Ah, but that's the money shot right there.” He shapes his thumbs and forefingers into a square, squeezing one eye shut and peering through it.

She rolls her eyes before walking up to him, ignoring his smirk when she peels his own shirt from his skin and over his head. “I am wet all of the time.” She mumbles in imitation of him, making him chuckle.

“What can I say?” He shrugs, sitting on the bed and pulling out his stash. As he starts preparing their joint she sits behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle and watching his hands over his shoulder. She always had an appreciation for his hands no matter what they happened to be busy with. Turning the pages of a book? She’d imagine them on her arms, rubbing up and down to warm her up. The strings of a guitar? She’d think about it all day until they were buried in her in the evening. For now, though, she just appreciated that they were attached to him, her Harry. His cross tattoo stretched across his skin as he pulled the paper over, sealing the plant inside, and prompting her to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Want to go outside? It’s sunny, and I think we both need a bit of vitamin D.” He leans into her hand when she combs his hair back, just for it to fall right back into place.

“Well in that case I’m rolling two, because you’ll start whining about wanting another and I won’t have nearly enough energy to come back inside.” There's no malice in his voice, just pure observation, and it makes her laugh.

“You’re probably right.” She lightly kisses his neck just below his ear. One side of his mouth turns up into a crooked smile as he grabs more herb, creating a long mound on the paper. They sit in comfortable silence while he works, but y/n, being impatient as she is, can’t sit still for long until she gently bites his earlobe. “Haz.”

“For fuck’s sake, love, can’t an ounce of attention go elsewhere than you?” He says, his accent forming an o when he curses. She laughs and her breath tickles his ear, making him smile and turn his head to look at her. “I’m nearly finished anyways, good lord.” He wrinkles his nose before pecking her lips, making her groan in impatience as she stands up.

“If you weren’t such a perfectionist we’d be high by now.”

“Would we be? With a canoeing joint?” He holds it up to inspect his work, the sides smooth until they peak with a twist at the top. She plucks it out of his hands before sprinting down the hall, her boyfriend calling an indignant “Oi!” behind her. She giggles as she runs out into the living room, perching the joint between two fingers as she sits on the floor to shuffle through his collection of vinyls. Harry follows her with a smile, bending to rest his hands on her shoulders and rubbing his thumbs into their blades.

“What’re you thinking, little thief?” He murmurs in her ear, brushing his lips along the cartilage. “Classic rock? Psychedelic? Something smooth, slow?” She feels goosebumps on her arm, and knows he can see them when she feels his smile against her skin.

“For someone who’s supposedly tired of sex, you sure do like to be suggestive.” She says, pulling out Lust For Life by Lana Del Rey. She wipes the small collection of dust off the front with her palm, admiring the ethereal beauty of one of her favorite artists.

He merely hums in response, reaching over her head to turn on the record player. When they had first started dating, Harry had pestered her with question after question about music. What she liked, what she hated, what made her smile, what made her cry. At first she had been compliant but confused by his questions, until she observed him in the same situations he was asking her about. Harry didn’t just listen to it, he felt it. She could tell in the way his body fluidly responded to his favorite songs, as if they had entered his bloodstream and were traveling through each of his limbs. She felt it in the way he held her close and swayed back and forth in the kitchen with her while Helplessly Hoping by Crosby, Stills & Nash played softly in the background. Or saw it in his eyes when Elton John’s I’m Still Standing came on in the car and he would pump a fist into the air. His constant questions were him getting to know her in the only way he understood- through music.

The first soft beats of the opening song crackle through the speakers, and y/n can feel the pop in her knees when she stands up. “Outside, my love?”

Harry nods in response, tucking her hair behind her ear with a soft smile. “Better than sex, yeah?”

She laughs and pushes his shoulder as she brushes past him to slide open the glass door. Harry leaves it open behind him to let the croon of Lana’s voice follow them outdoors, his fingers reaching out to tug on the fabric of her shirt. “C’mere, baby.” He says, fishing a lighter out of his pocket and holding it up to her. She perches the joint between her lips, watching him as he flicks his thumb and cups his hand around the end. She inhales slowly with her eyes closed, feeling the burn of the green hit drift down her throat and the burn of his green eyes on her face. She exhales after a second, handing it over to her boyfriend. Harry does the same, brushing the curls out of his face and keeping his eyes on her. “How the fuck did I get so lucky?” He says on his exhale.

“What do you mean?” She takes it from his outstretched hand, sitting on the ground with her back against the wall of the house. Harry sits beside her only to pull her into his lap so she's facing him.

“How the fuck did I get so lucky to live this life? I get to make music, smoke a joint with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life. I get to see you, like this. No makeup, wearing my clothes…” He pinches her chin in between his fingers, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“You’re always so sappy when you smoke.” She smiles, kissing his forehead while he takes another hit.

“Maybe so, but I mean it.” He coughs slightly, adjusting her in his lap so he can bend his knees to support her back. She rubs his arm, tilting her head to watch him. “I’ve been in some dark places before. Mentally, ya know? But now that I’m here, and you’re here, and we’re together, I can see how fucking pointless it all was.” He waves his arm to the side to emphasize his point, physically pushing away the metaphorical memories in the air. “Er, not pointless I guess. I can see how I needed it. To be everything I can be for you.” Her eyes soften, and she can see the water pooling beneath the green in his. She holds her hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, closing his eyes. “I was stuck in that place for so long, trying to decide who I was when I was on my own and who I didn’t want to be. And now I’m at a point where...” He huffs, his curls blowing away from his forehead. “Now I’m at a point where... I don’t know. I just want to be everything for you, y/n.”

“You are everything for me.” She wraps her arms around his middle, resting her head on his collarbone and squeezing him tight. “Really. I admire you so much Harry. How hard you work and how far you’ve come. You are oozing with passion, not just in our relationship but in everything you do. I see that. I wish you would see that.” She holds his face in her hands now, rubbing his cheekbones with her thumbs. “You’re allowed to step back and be proud of the progress you’ve made.”

He takes a drag and then kisses her palm as he considers what she had said. When all the smoke has escaped his lips he looks at her with a small but pleased smile, his eyes still shiny. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She kisses his eyelids, causing his dimples to make an appearance in his cheeks.

“Okay. I’ll try. I mean I will. I love you.” He wraps his arms tightly around her, burying his face in her neck. She can feel his groan start in his chest before he releases it, the type of exclamation that only comes with relief of getting something off your chest. She laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close. He pulls away only to kiss her, his eyes still closed when their lips separate. 

“I’ll always be here too, Harry. You don’t need to put up a front just because it’s what you think others expect. You can be whoever the fuck you want to be, and I’ll stay right here beside you until you figure out who that is. I know I’m still figuring myself out. For god’s sake, we’re in our twenties. The entire plot of Sex and the City is figuring yourself out, and they’re in their thirties. I think we’re doing well.”

Harry chuckles at her rant, kissing her again. “Thank you, y/n. I appreciate the analogy. Now that the heart-to-heart is through, can we get high as balls?”

She snorts a laugh, taking the joint from his hands and taking a hit in response, raising her eyebrows. He grins up at her, squeezing her waist in his hands and attacking her neck with kisses, whispering and teasing her. The smoke from their lips intermingles in the air with the soft sounds from the record player, Lana’s Cherry drifting to and around them.

‘Cause I love you so much, I fall to pieces

My cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme

And all of my peaches

[dherzogblog]

songs/20

Happy Holidays Everyone! I started making these yearly playlists in 2001 as an attempt to connect with friends in the wake of 911. It was just before the dawn of ITunes, and way before social media. We were not in touch like we are today. I burned dozens of individual cd’s one at a time, printed up customized jewel case covers and snail mailed them all out. It was an annual month-long labor of love. Over the past few years, streaming music has made it much easier and faster to compile and distribute, and frankly much more fun. I still look forward to putting the playlist and blog together and sharing it with all of you. Particularly this year as it gives me a chance to connect with so many friends I haven’t seen in quite some time. It was a tremendously challenging year for all of us. I was grateful to have had my family here in LA the entire time, we remain healthy and well. The west coast Herzogs know just how lucky we have been. The next year will not be without its own challenges, but I'm hopeful we are able to move past this pandemic and the exhausting events of the past 4. More than that, I look forward to seeing each and every one of you in 2021. Until then, be safe, be well, and be good to one another. Enjoy the music.

ox peace, dh

Los Angeles CA. December 2020

Khruangbin - Time (You And I) Don’t ask me to pronounce the name of this eclectic trio from Texas, but this dubby disco tune had me returning to its chilled out groove often during the last few decidedly “un-chill” months. Dreamy and funky, the groove takes me back to NYC’s early 80′s club scene and Ze Records releases from the likes of Kid Creole and Coati Mundi.

Anderson .Paak- Lockdown Scenes from the front, June 2020

.

Bill Withers (1938-2020)- Use Me The legendary Bill Withers left the playing field at the top of his game in the early 80′s, hardly heard from again. And while he didn't pass from Covid, his healing pop hymn Lean On Me seemed to be everywhere as people found music to help them cope with the challenges of the pandemic. Withers left behind a legendary and enduring group of hit songs that moved easily from soul to folk to pop, not to mention the subtle rolling funk of this one.

Black Pumas- Fire Strong debut from an unlikely Austin duo that garnerd both buzz and grammy nods. The critics are calling it “psychedelic soul”. Not quite sure that nails it, but like the artists coming up next, they’re carving out new ground while drawing inspiration from classic sources.

Gabe Lee- Babylon

Marcus King- Wildflowers and Wine

Charley Crockett- Welcome to Hard Times

Three artists that are literally changing the face of Country and Americana music. Soulful, authentic and diverse, reaching back for inspiration but always looking forward. If you like this sort of stuff they are all worth checking out. Each album is filled with quality songs.

Low Cut Connie_ Private Lives Philly’s Low Cut Connie are back at it with a double album that plays like the soundtrack to a boozy night at your favorite bar. Sweaty, funky and not a little bit messy. If Peter Wolf and Bruce had a kid it would be this blue eyed soul boy. Adam Weiner grew up in the shadow of the Jersey shore and can't help but have a bit of that E Street hustle.

Willie Nile- New York at Night One of New York’s beloved adopted  son’s dropped this love letter right into the jaws of a battered metropolis driven to its knees by the pandemic. It was heartbreaking to listen as the “city that never sleeps” came to a full stop. Somehow I still found myself coming back to it, imagining night’s ahead, when NYC is back on its feet and I’m roaming its streets. Looking for music, a beer, or maybe just a slice, and fueled by the irreplaceable energy and promise of the greatest city on earth.

The Long Ryders- Down to The Well Americana pioneers the Long Ryders reunited last year for a surprisingly solid album. This single sounds like it could have been recorded during their 80′s heyday featuring their trademark Byrds like jangle and harmonies, but the lyrics mark this song as unmistakably 2020.

The Speedways- Kisses Are History UK power pop outfit reach back to the the 60′s on this sweet slice of retro pop perfection.

Billie Joe Armstrong- That Thing You Do

In the early days of the pandemic we had all our kids (+ a significant other) at our house for a few months. It worked out great and we were luckier than most. The biggest issue was keeping enough food, weed and wine around.  There were some great nights with amazing meals, followed by gathering around the TV together. We re-watched The Sopranos, binged Billy On The Street, and revisited some of our favorite movies. One night we went back to a old family favorite, Tom Hanks’ underrated love letter to the one hit wonders of the post Beatles era, That Thing You Do!  I’ve seen the movie several times and it never fails to please. A true feel good film and a perfect Kodak snapshot capturing a simpler time in American pop culture. 

While we watch the unlikely chart topper’s The Oneders  fizzle as fast as they rose to fame, its not really the point. The movie is really an old fashioned love story. Playing like a perfect hit song you can listen to over and over, full of both hooks and heart. I always thought the title track, written by Fountains Of Wayne leader Adam Schlesinger  (who we lost to Covid), brilliantly captured the British Invasion sound every group wanted after The Beatles stormed America. Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong must agree. During the pandemic he cut an album’s worth of cool covers including a faithful version of this one.

Gerard Way (W/Judith Hill - Here Comes the End A tale of discovering music in 2020:  Heard this on a Netflix trailer for the series The Umbrella Factory. Turns out it is performed by Gerard Way (My Chemical Romance) who also writes the comic book the series is based on. (got all that?) He’s joined on this searing garage/psych rave up by the talented and versatile Judith Hill doing her best Merry Clayton.

Hinds- Spanish Bombs I’ve been following this Madrid based, all female outfit of punky garage rockers for a few years now. I think they are pretty great. This track, recorded for a Joe Strummer tribute bursts with an unbridled joy the stone faced and politically minded Clash could never muster. I bet Joe would love it though

The Secret Sisters- Hand Over My Heart Have enjoyed their harmonies for some time now. This one gives me vague Wilson Phillips vibes and I don’t really mind. 

Tame Impala- Breathe Deeper I know I’m supposed to like this guy, all the cool kids do, I’ve even seen the band at Coachella. Over the years very little of the music has stuck to me, but the pandemic offered a bit more free time to dig into this funky dubby, chilled out jam, and it stuck with me. Not to mention that 2020 was all about deep breaths.

Ledisi (feat.Corey Henry)- What Kind of Love Is That Ledisi is back with some slinky, sultry R&B and jazzy vocals

Dinner Party- FreezeTag An R&B/Jazz collective featuring Terrace Martin, Robert Glasper, 9th Wonder and Kamasi Washington use sweet soul on heartbreaking and all too familiar tale..

Toots and The Maytals- Time Tough  I’ve written an awful lot about my love for Reggae over the years. Right after Bob Marley kicked the door down for me, Toots showed me around the house. Ska, rock steady, and roots. He was true reggae royalty and sadly we lost him to Covid, just after he released what would be his last album. Check my Toots tribute blog and playlist.

Mungo’s Hi Fi- The Beat Goes SKA! These clever UK roots reggae collective never fail to surprise. This kitschy Sonny & Cher cover managed to make me smile every time I heard it. No mean feat in 2020

Stone Foundation (feat. Durand Jones)- Hold on To Love Frequent collaborators with Paul Weller  (he appears on a track on the album), Stone Foundation are back with another batch of their UK soul revival stylings. This one features Durand Jones ( of Durand Jones & The Indications) on vocals and some great reggae style horns at the top.

The Pretenders- You Can’t Hurt A Fool Can’t resist a good torch song, especially sung by the smokey voiced Chrissie Hynde. Was kind of shocked at how many good songs were on this album.

Shelby Lynne_ Don’t Even Believe in Love Sultry country soul and one of her strongest albums in awhile.

Jaime Wyatt- Neon Cross Outlaw country has a new bad girl. And in case you didn’t think she was serious, she enlisted producer Shooter Jennings (and his mom Jessi Colter on one track) to help make her point. 

Daniel Donato- Justice 25 year old guitar prodigy call his music “cosmic country”.  Ok, now I’m listening. You should be too.

The Jayhawks- This Forgotten Town 30 plus + after their debut this Twin Cities alt country group led by founding member Gary Louris continue to deliver. They find their inner Neil Young on this one.

Lucero- Time To Go Home God I wish I was in a bar right now listening to this, even if I might be crying in my beer.

John Prine (1946 -2020)- Lake Marie We lost so many this year, but this one really stung. A true American songwriting treasure, who was still making great music against all odds right up to his untimely passing. His songs are known for their simplicity, and economy of words. but this one goes against the grain. I’m still not exactly certain what it’s about. Sorrowful and haunting, yet somehow uplifting and redemptive. I heard him perform it live here in Los Angeles a just over a year ago and it has stuck in my head ever since. There is surely a place in heaven for the great John Prine.  He sang about it on his final studio album in 2018. Ironically it became the last song on his last record.

Thanks for making it this far....

***Play the entire songs/20 Spotify playlist HERE!***

[efurujr]

Jhené Aiko Sits Down With HYPEBAE To Speak One-on-One About Freeing the Mind.

Written By Alex Lendrum

There’s a certain “Jhene” sais quoi with R&B/Soul artist Jhene Aiko that places her apart from her contemporaries. While she unequivocally has the chops for singing, her sultry and honest-sounding vocals having been fined tuned since her inception into the music game back in 2002, it’s her ability to compose refreshingly candid lyrics that resonates deeply with her listeners. Any Aiko fan will tell you just how much her music speaks to their level, and how her straight forward yet poetic messages shine a very personal light on Aiko’s own life and experiences, which in turn offers insight to help better your own self. It’s a powerful tool to have, and Jhene certainly knows how to wield it.

Following her latest trifecta effort that sees the release of a movie, album, and poetry book — which she’s dubbed MAP — all of which revolve around the same theme of self exploration, us fans are made privy to the topic of Jhene’s relationship with drugs. We’re not talking about the typical boasting of endless blunts, but rather the real-life ups and downs of exploring mind-altering substances, how that influences your approach to life, and the effects it can have with personal relationships. Aptly entitled Trip, the new album is a journey lead by Jhene’s alias Penny, with the accompanying poetry book 2fish, furthering the heartfelt expression of her anecdotal confessions. To visually represent all that, we have her short film — also entitled Trip — that offers a window into Jhene’s personality, how she gets creative, and most importantly the sole inspiration behind her music: her brother.

During an intimate event in collaboration with storied french cognac house Martell, we were lucky enough to secure some exclusive time with the singer/songwriter to ask her about her latest project, to further explain her thoughts on psychoactive substances — that takes us on a rather philosophical turn — the reasoning behind bearing herself so honestly in her work, and more. It’s safe to say that our short time with Jhene proves her beauty both in and out, which is why we can’t urge you enough to take this trip with us in discovering a little more about Jhene that you may not probably haven’t read elsewhere.

Starting things off with the new project and its theme, could you bring us back to that ‘aha’ moment when you realized that your psychedelic  journey was the right theme for it all?

Well I’ve always been going on mental and physical trips, and I’ve been writing in notebooks since I was elementary school, but as I‘ve been having more crazy experiences it’s become an even more important form of expression. I write everything down. After Souled Out I wasn’t really interested in, or needed to put out an album, but I did want to explore more of my writing ability, so I made this movie Trip. But then I was like, I want to score this with original music too, and then it kind of just became an album. It was song after song after song, and I was referring to these notebooks that i’d been writing during my solo trips. Then the poetry I’ve been writing for the past five to six years which is more than enough to have a poetry book — I just had to type up the poems — it was already all there. I wanted to release it all together as one entity and I really like acronyms. Hence MAP — Movie, Album, Poetry — it fits perfectly because I feel the whole process has been about me navigating through my suffering, my pain, even my joy in my love life. Just trying to find my way back to my true self. That’s who Penny is — who I talk a lot about in the whole journey — that’s a childhood nickname my granddad gave me when I was born. So I felt like it all came to me recently and I was like, “oh so this is what it’s all about.” It wasn’t about the movie, the poetry book or the music, it was about expressing what was in my mind because I couldn’t keep it in anymore, otherwise I’d go crazy. I was more concerned about what others thought about me so I felt like I was holding back and not being true to myself . This time around I was like I don’t care, like I’m going to share but it’s literally for me. I’ve not even been listening to other music during the time of making this. I’ve just been focused on myself.

Talking about psychedelics, a lot of people use them to explore parts of themselves that they aren’t aware of. So in Trip, you go through a moment in which you express your need to let go of the loss of your brother. Do you feel like you’ve fully found yourself? Do we even ever fully find ourselves while trying to explore what our life means? Is there an end? Should there even be an end, or can you just enjoy the journey of finding yourself?

I think the journey is the reward, I think that it’s about being on the right path, the path for you. That’s what I felt I had to get back to because I was being nudged here and there by not really listening to myself and not being in tune.  Throughout the movie, the poetry book and the album, I’m experimenting with different things — this was happening in real life. Certain methods and substances were taking me further away and things like Psilocybin actually opened my mind to the point where today I’m not even smoking weed — I just love to have a clear mind. That scene where my brother told me let go is actually a dream I had, where he came to me and was telling me these things. He was a firm believer in natural, if it’s not a plant then you know… I know a lot of the things I did he wouldn’t approve of, but it was my way of getting closer to him. I definitely think that people confuse their ego with their spirit. Your ego is always there telling you to “be better and work harder,” not telling you that you’re already enough. You need to silence your ego to hear your spirit and that’s what I had to do. I definitely feel like I went through an ego death on mushrooms, I wanted to go to Peru and do Ayahuasca but I didn’t, and now I don’t really feel like I need to. I wanted that awakening but I drove myself up to Big Sur, drank some mushroom tea and met with a shaman where we had a ceremony. Basically the ayahuasca ceremony but with mushrooms. Since then I feel like I’ve shifted my whole being. I’ve been pushed onto the path I’m supposed to be on — I now see everything more clearly. I know there’s still more work to do, I’m only 29, but at least now I’m headed in the right direction and I’m going to keep getting there.

In that same vein, do you feel your dream and the urge to open your mind is actually your self-conscious trying to telling you something?

I always say even if it’s just taking yourself out of your environment, or your mind with some sort of substance, it’s the moment when you come down — coming back to yourself — that’s when you realise all things. It’s not when you’re high. So actually it’s like “oh I already knew these things, I just had to go out and come back to myself to see it!” One thing I found with the Psilocybin was that in nature, I was so much more receptive, I’ve always been a nature girl, I love to be outside — a tree hugger and all that — and it’s something that stuck with me. I no longer have to be on something to notice the beauty and the messages that the natural world give us. I love to hike and I love to go to the beach, and I’m always inspired and feel like I’m getting this energy that is opening my mind and teaching me that’s beamed down to me. It’s all within me but certain things help trigger it. Like even the sunshine that is giving you vitamin D and that’s helping me think and feel better.

Have you heard about the Celestine prophecy?

Yes, from my father, but I haven’t read it yet.

You should! But going back to your music, a lot of your lyrics have always been relatable to people, helping them with their own issues — it’s always been honest and candid. Where does that honestly and kindness come from?

I’ve always been an over-sharer to the point where I’ll meet someone and just start talking and telling them everything about my life. Then after I’m always like “oh I talked a lot,” but whatever — I’m not ashamed about my story. So when it comes to writing, it’s my way of dealing with things. I never looked at it as kindness — it’s just second nature to me — and when a person comes up to me and says “your song really helped me get through this,” or “how did you know you’re saying all the things I wish I could say?,” it’s honestly just a coincidence. When I’m writing, I’m not trying to save the world, I’m just trying to help myself, but it’s a plus that people can relate to it. Especially with Trip, I just completely dug deep and said what I had to say, expressed all my pain, my doubts, all of it. I did it for myself though — I just naturally share because I’m from a big family.

Is Trip significantly more personal than other albums?

For sure, the first EP is pretty easy listening, then Souled Out was about me getting my foot in the door and being vulnerable, but like I said, I was being a bit more tip-toey. I’ve got a studio in my house now so when I wake up from a dream I can just go record and it remains raw. Now I’m just more excited to keep going and going. I’m getting older and have no shame in expressing my true self.

You worked with the talented writer Tracy Oliver on the movie. How was that?

We met way before I had the idea to write this movie. She’s represented by ICM, so am I, and they were aware I was interested in acting and writing, so they told me get in touch with her. We hit it off, we went to a coffee place and talked for hours and hours, and I got really personal with her. I told her all my problems off the top of my head. Then with Trip the movie, I had the story but I didn’t know how to write a script, I don’t know the whole process, and so I was like I should call Tracy. She came over for a few weeks where she looked through all my notebooks and my poetry, and we put together the storyboard. She’s like my sister, we hit it off right away and we’re still close, and I’m looking forward to working with her more on future projects.

Lastly, talking about experiences, you and Martell put together this event that promoted the theme of “home.” what do you want people to take away from it all?

I’m a homebody for sure, I love to stay at home. I’ve always said that if I could, I would just have people come over to my house. If there’s a show or a shoot I’m just like, “can we do it at my house? You guys should just come over to mine….” That’s what I appreciated about tonight, it’s at a home, and it’s in LA — which is where I’m from. So it’s super comfortable and I always want people to have an experience. That’s where “MAP” came from, it’s an offering more than a project, it’s something for you to really dive into and become a part of. I feel that people enjoy things like that when we live in a VR world. I feel like something like this is really important to connect on a real level.

© Hypebae

Photographed By Aaron Miller / Editor Tora Northman

[saamerz]

Tag Game

Tagged by: @sleepingwith-cait

Rules: answer the questions and tag 20 blogs you’d like to get to know better.

Nicknames: Sam, jack, little jack, half pint, short stuff, tiny tot, squirt

Time Right Now: 12:57 a.m

Last thing I Googled: Psychedelic music and visuals

Fave Music Artist: probably Ani Difranco

Song stuck in my head: Livin’ On a Prayer - Bon Jovi, BTS song, Ughh (She Nasty)

Last movie I watched: Guardians of the Galaxy

Last TV show I watched: Naruto (I think)

What i’m Wearing Now: Leggings and an “I wish you were a piñata” shirt

When I created this Blog: About two years ago

The Kind of Stuff I Post: Random things. Weed, texts post, anime, music, my face, animals.. etc

Do I have other blogs: Nurp

Do I get asks Regularly: Not at all. Bring them on

Why did I choose my url: I chose my URL because it was simple and the only thing I could come up with.

Gender: nonbinary.

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Pokemon Team: Mystic

Fav color: Blue, orange, purple, burgundy .

Average Hours of Sleep: 5-6

Lucky Number: I’m not so lucky but my favorite number is 5.

Favorite Characters: Way too many to chose from. Stitch umm.. yeah. I don’t know. I love a lot of characters. Gir. Idk.

Dream Job: Marine biologist I guess

Number of Blankets I Sleep with: 2 including the sheet.

Tagging: @fridafdb @noosance @innocuite @dreamslullabiesandstarlitskies @sm0ke-her-0ut

[filmista]

Woodstock: 3 Days of Peace & Music The Director’s Cut! (1970)

If a fire broke out in the book and film shelve in my apartment, and I only got the chance to save a few books and a few films from a fiery death, What would I save? Michael Wadleigh's documentary capturing Woodstock would now be one of the first things I'd think I'd reach for.

Why? Because it is truly a time machine: a time capsule, a glimpse into one of the most beautiful and peaceful moments in human history. The kind of moment that makes you wish you could time travel only to witness it and this film allows that a little bit. The film succeeds brilliantly in evoking the atmosphere of the festival.

Not only because it is beautifully filmed, which of course since it was the 70's means intense psychedelic colors and light, a delight mostly for two senses your eyes and your ears. The film transports you into the mindset and the hearts, the soul of these people.

The hippies: what they stood for, what they rebelled against, what they so fervently believed in: peace, music, love, really just letting everybody live freely. These people truly believed in freedom and you see in their faces as they're interviewed that they're convinced of their beliefs, these people believed without a doubt the world was going to become a better, prettier, happier place...

On a small farm in Bethel, in upstate New York Woodstock was presented: 3 Days of Peace & Music better known as simply Woodstock nowadays, a 1969 music festival where the largest hippie congregation in history ever assembled to celebrate the festival. Life, love, and music. Michael Wadleigh wrote this documentary in 1970, showing the construction and experiences of those three days, winning an Oscar as best documentary at the time.

The authors of this great festival are the people who attended and lived in Woodstock in addition to the bands that attended. In this documentary, we're shown how many of those present celebrated life and with a motto of love and peace they rejected and protested against wars, specifically the Vietnam War.

Woodstock would go down in history as the most legendary music festival of all time. Everything seemed to work to perfection during that magical summer of 1969: the atmosphere, the people, the music. 500,000 hippies descended into a meadow to hear greats like Jimi Hendrix, The Who, and Jefferson Airplane.

The traffic got stuck in the areas surrounding Woodstock, the food ran out and there were too few toilets and first aid workers. Still, there were hardly any disturbances and help came quickly from all possible corners. The locals donated food, the army flew in relief supplies and doctors offered their services for free. Woodstock proved that half a million young people , for three days, could live and get along in harmony and was thus a symbol of the fraternizing effects of music.

Director Michael Wadleigh was there and shot pictures that you could frame and hang up in your house. In his documentary Woodstock: 3 Days of Peace & Music Wadleigh presents atmospheric images which he alternates with performances and interviews with festival-goers, artists, organizers, local people and even authority.

He appears to have an eye for special moments; the camera always seems to be in the right place at the exact right time. This makes Woodstock more than just your average festival film, but a living and breathing document with high historical value.

The film paints a stunning portrait of the generation that grew up with rock, recreational drugs and free love, but also with racial hatred, the Vietnam War and the threat of nuclear weapons. The magic of Woodstock gave America and other parts of the world, for a brief moment in time the feeling and sensation that peace and freedom were at hand's reach, not an illusion, not a fantasy, a gorgeous and realistic possibility.

The script of Michael Wadleigh is build up according to how this great festival was being constructed and how it was unfolding and shows the coexistence of the assistants. Michael wanted stories of the young people: their feelings about Vietnam, about the time and feelings and thoughts about i, they most certainly had.

He didn't only want it to be music and with several cuts and screen divisions he was visualizing different parts of the farm where people are shown exactly as they are, with absolute spontaneity. His way of filming included  mostly close ups and traveling. The camera followed the assistants, in fact there is a part that I found hilarious where Wadleigh follows someone on a motorcycle and he eventually bumps into the helmet of the guy on the motorcycle.

Giving an accurate chronology of what was the first mega festival in the history of music would almost be like attempting to sing a song that we all know there is always someone who doesn't know it. But I think it's good to refresh some facts and curious data.

We know that Woodstock didn't take place in Woodstock but a Bethel farm owned by a good man named Max Yasgur who agreed to receive 6,000 people (in the end there were more than 500,000) to please his son Sam who was a mediator along  with his father and the twenty-somethings Michael Lang, Joel Rosenman and Artie Kornfeld, producers and creative minds of the festival.

What perhaps no one imagined is that Woodstock would become an event that would transcend the strictly musical to acquire a deeper meaning: a spiritual and philosophical one, more than half a million people living peacefully for three days, making this festival the milestone that marked a revolution of love And peace counteracting the violent events that happened in the world.

For US $ 18 you could see and hear from the 15th to 17th of August of 1969 (among others) Legendary Janis Joplin, The Who, Country Joe McDonald, Incredible String Band, Ravi Shankar, Joan Baez, Santana, Canned Heat, Mountain, Sly & The Family Stone, Grateful Dead, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Jefferson Airplane, Joe Cocker, Country Joe and the Fish, Ten Years After, The Band, Blood, Sweat & Tears, Johnny Winter, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Sha-Na-Na and Jimi Hendrix. (Anyways eventually an anarchist group broke the fences the first day officially making it a totally free festival).

Those who were not there: Bob Dylan (he was angry with the fans who had harassed him during his motorcycle accident that had kept him away from the stage for a long time). He was only to play at Woodstock '94. King Crimson, because of commitments in Britain; The Byrd said "it's just another summer festival"; Led Zeppelin because they did not want to be "another band on the list"; The Beatles were no longer playing live and John Lennon apparently was unable to enter the United States in those days; The Doors two versions: one that underestimated the festival, the other that Jim Morrison feared he would be killed on stage. In short, we do not know if they later on regretted it or not, I know I would.

The film has so many golden moments that it is difficult to choose a favorite. The aerial shots of the huge crowds. The yogis who are through breathing exercises getting naturally high. The couples that are kissing or making out, or even taking it to the next level. The organizers explaining with a big smile on their face that Woodstock is an utter financial disaster.

A girl with a colorful umbrella on a deserted trampled festival ground.The Chief of Police calling the parents of America to be proud of their offspring. Hippies Chanting “NO RAIN! “, noticing that it doesn't help, and then allowed themselves to fall and glide into the mud.

There are only a few minor points. The picture quality logically falters here and there, and leaves stuff to be desired, interviews are difficult to understand because of the background noise and Wadleigh is somewhat too excited with alternating formats at times.

Not everyone likes to contemplate big black bars on the screen. Also, the documentary with It's 3.5 hours is perhaps a bit on the long side. But, then you at least have something that entertains for a few hours right? in the case of Woodstock I'm inclined to say more content is definitely better than less content of lesser quality!

(And personally I find It's imperfectness uterrly charming, it is authentic just like it was, if you go to a concert or a big festival there's just a lot of noise and a lot of what's going on might actually pass you by, and that's that). Woodstock is a film that should be seen by every music lover. Even if you, metaphorically speaking hatched out of the egg after the hippie era.

It is enormously striking to me that nearly everybody that is interviewed is either grinning, smiling, chuckling or laughing: animatedly or loudly, and the ones that aren't being interviewed are having silly or deep, philosophical conversations or they're joking with a friend.

They're smoking weed, they're skinny dipping, they're kissing or they're off making love in between the grass and the flowers, no inhibition, and no shame.  For me also striking is that these people when you’re watching them seemed so alive, they were right at the moment, so into it, they were really living it, no one was only half experiencing it, because they were more focused on getting good footage on their phones, nowadays half of them would probably be staring at a screen.

These people were really genuinely happy (with the exception of one angry older couple that lived near the festival, who were angry at all the noise and the kids taking drugs, to which somebody counter suggests they're peaceful, maybe we should all smoke); happiness permeates throughout the entire film and you really can't help but smile, the belief in love and kindness that permeates through here would melt the hardest and the coldest of hearts.

Woodstock shows that people can come together and coexist together, calmly in harmony and in peace, without violence, without posing a threat to one another. Everybody seemed to believe in helping one another, and it all came from the belief in one thing: peace and love, the power of love, that loving is the one thing that frees us. And it is a beautiful thing to witness.

Of course, it wasn't all perfect or beautiful, Woodstock was, of course, one massive open air manifesto for love and peace, a protest against one thing war and violence, against the worst sides of our nature.

There is something harrowing and chilling under the surface: of some of the happy, smiling young men that you see, some even if they didn't believe in war and killing would be sent to Vietnam and never come back. Some would experience shell shock afterward or other psychological disorders, some would never smile or make love again; but hey at least for three days they were completely free, they spoke their minds and they defended their beliefs.

And yet still there the army was: helping them, probably partly so that they'd have enough men to serve in the army later... but still it was an act of kindness and they seemed to really believe something good was happening, they brought them food (there allegedly once during the festival was breakfast on bed or better in tent for everyone) and drinks. Everybody simply seemed absorbed into the magic of the festival, everyone believed in kindness and in love for a few days.

Woodstock was declared a disaster area and a financial disaster as I said earlier and, yet the organizers were happy and smiling about it, they didn’t see it as an economical failure, they saw it as a success, human nature at It's best, everybody at the festival was civil with one another.

One of the reasons that I love the documentary, even if the hippie movement and what they believed in didn't last and in many things, I'd say, unfortunately, except of course for the STDS that inevitably came with free love...

But I love that these people so passionately defended and held onto their beliefs, even in the world around them weren't all that beautiful at that particular time, there were fear and threats also, but they preferred defending the positive and trying to get the world to see the positive rather than focusing all their attention and energy on the negative, they actually, physically tried to make a change...

It's a nice reminder of human decency and of the fact that people can live with each other harmoniously, that everybody can be each other's equal, these people really believed that and for a beautiful moment in time it really was so...

I find that watching Woodstock when  really helped to instill a new positivity, a renewed belief in humanity, but then I think: it didn't last, was it really one of the all-time highs in human civilisation and has it in some aspects gone downhill since? But then some part of me thinks if these people could do it, then surely it oughta be possible again, so I'm a bit conflicted by the end, both sad and happy.

And then there's the music of course! It is pure, honest and straight from the heart ... The lineup of Woodstock was mouth-watering and would give many people goosebumps and chills of pleasure and many performances are considered classic. Richie Havens who improvised the song "Freedomi" during his set.

Janis Joplin who died too young was singing her lungs out.”Pinball Wizard" by The Who and "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix. Carlos Santana that presents himself to a large audience, with a very young Michael Shrieve behind the drums. The energy explodes from the stage and all that beautiful music is thanks to the improved sound quality of the Director's Cut allowed to shine even more. So a real treat!

The biggest concern and which was the motive of the film is to show the rejection of the government system as such, people were tired of wars and the festival was a way of being able to express themselves and not to obtain an economic purpose but rather to unify and to make known to the world their peaceful ideals and the love of art.

It shows how an event defined a generation, how the love of art and music can achieve a feeling and unite many people in the goal of achieving peace. In addition, Wadleigh accomplished his mission, to show the ideas and stories of the people besides making evident what the acts that took place in Woodstock were. Simply a delightful documentary.

Some facts: The poster of Woodstock 69 is one of the most famous images in the world and also became a symbol of peace. Rolling Stone included the festival on a list of the 50 defining moments in Rock and music history. Jimi Hendrix insisted on closing the festival and gave the longest concert of his career. The festival started an hour late because it was difficult to find any of the artists in the fit enough condition to perform.

Tim Hardin was too high and his repertoire was limited to two tracks (later he died of a heroin overdose). Richie Havens, who opened the first day's performances, had to lengthen his repertoire because the next ones to play were not ready. His song Freedom became a worldwide anthem.

The drugs deserve a separate paragraph: Nine out of ten festival goers smoked marijuana and in total 33 were arrested for drug use, according to health services. "Bad trip" cases with LSD: 400. Bond price in Dollars to release those arrested for possession of LSD: 20,000. Price in dollars of 30 grams of marijuana: 15.

There were two births in Woodstock, as well as free sex, mud, music, food shortages (the army sent aid by air). Three deaths: a boy hit by a tractor while sleeping, another after a ruptured appendix and another by overdose of heroin. Hundreds of people who could not get through because of chaos in transit. The average speed of the cars was 1.6 km per hour. And a millionaire loss that took 10 years to recover from for the organizers. The cleaning of the property demanded U $ S 100,000 extra.

To finish, I extract a paragraph written a couple of years ago in Rolling Stone magazine signed by Andy Greene. The note refers to the filming of the documentary and it seems to me a beautiful summary:

“Smiling nuns make peace signs to the camera; Cops eat ice cream from popsicle sticks with hippies; And the old folks make a common cause to feed the fans. And, like everyone in Woodstock, the very existence of the documentary is a small miracle. Just moments after cameraman David Myers finished filming a couple having sex on the grown grass at the Woodstock festival in 1969, he found a garbage man that was cleaning a chemical toilet that flooded with a huge sucking hose. "It’s hard to keep up,” he says. “I’m glad to do it for these kids. My son is here, and I also have one in Vietnam. Now he’s in the demilitarised zone, flying helicopters. "As the man heads to his next chemical toilet, a tall hippie stumbles out of one, smoking a pipe, looks fixedly at the camera and says, ”They don’t see us. Do you want some?”

The Woodstock film crew:

L-R: Michael Wadleigh, Renee Wadleigh, Martin Scorsese

Arlo Guthrie: It's incredible. I heard the New York Thruway's closed. News Reporter: Closed? This morning we heard that they were backed down Route 17 with an eight hour delay. Arlo Guthrie: Right. Well, the New York Thruway's closed. Isn't that far out?

“Max Yasgur: [to crowd] This is the largest group of people ever assembled in one place, and I think you people have proven something to the world: that a half a million kids can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing *but* fun and music, and I God bless you for it!”

[vervents]

sundry complaints/depression a-z

anger: everything is at least a minor irritation, when I'm upset I yell and it reminds me of my dad which makes me feel sick because i don't want to have inherited his temper

bedroom: looks like a hoarder's apartment because of the papers and trash and clothes piled everywhere. I don't have the energy to pick them up.

crying: I cry at everything. If I'm stressed I cry. If I feel trapped I cry. If I'm procrastinating I cry. I can't process emotions in a healthy way so I lash out, feel bad and then cry.

dullness: Everything feels muted, i feel like I can't react to things that used to make me happy anymore, no matter how hard I try (the one exception is being sad, it's like my emotional capacity is still the same but the half that used to deal with good things has been reassigned because there's so much bad)

executive dysfunction: see bedroom, above. A paper for research methods that's the most important assignment of the entire course is now almost three weeks late because I haven't been able to start it. I didn't attend any of my classes for three weeks straight, and before that I was so anxious about other people looking at me that I had to keep my webcam off

food: initially I wasn't eating because of the nausea, then it was because I didn't have the energy to cook, then it was because I felt like I didn't deserve it, then i was eating an excessive amount, then it was a way to punish myself, then it just didn't seem like a priority

games: stardew and animal crossing are the only things I can put effort into anymore, maybe because of the escapism?

hypersomnia: I don't remember the last time i felt good or rested waking up. I drink ~750 mg of caffeine a day and it does nothing to wake me up

inattention: I zone out when people are talking, I forget to complete tasks even if I'm in the middle of them, I can't stay focused on schoolwork for more than ten minutes, and I lose track of both my time and my belongings

jealousy: Anyone who I perceive to have anything I don't: more money, better looks, more intelligence, even just the motivation to get anything done: I can't help but compare myself to them even when I don't want to, which only makes me feel worse.

kindness is still one of my biggest values, but I have trouble practicing it fully toward anyone, especially myself. When people like my mom or Luis or my professors act in a kind way, I feel bad for not showing how much I appreciate it, even though those small acts are super meaningful to me

lying: telling other people I'm doing great, thanks! telling my mom I'm definitely not having suicidal thoughts. telling Luis that I'm outside eating an apple instead of curled up in a ball on my floor shaking.

muscle/joint pain: Everything hurts.

negative self-image, I don't remember what confidence feels like- to look in the mirror and feel any joy or pride or gratitude. I'm so tired of being so critical but it's a habit I can't bring myself to break.

oblivion: time doesn't feel real. I don't notice important things and spend most of my time in a daze waiting to go to bed.

panic attacks: sometimes I feel like I'm drowning and I can't breathe and there's pain in my chest and tears streaming down my face and I can't do anything until it stops.

quiet: the worst part of this is that it's inside my head- no one knows exactly what I'm feeling, and even if I knew how to tell them/ask for help it would be too much to explain to one person

responding to messages: when my friends text me (or message in group chats) I feel like an outsider or don't immediately know what to say, so days go by without me responding- This usually doesn't mean I forgot to respond, I just don't have the energy and then agonize and beat myself up over it for days until it gets resolved or I force myself to communicate the bare minimum

suicidality/self-harm: I never seriously understood these urges until now. Holding a lighter flame against my skin, pricking my arms and wrists with thumbtacks, picking at the dry skin on my lips until they bleed and not letting them heal, and the other day shredding my fingertips trying to get the blade out of a razor. Initially I just had passive thoughts like "I wish it would end" or "I want to sleep and not wake up" or "what if I got in an accident?", and I don't think I would ever do it, but recently those thoughts have progressed to fantasies about the easiest ways to go. Telling the psychiatrist's office about these thoughts got me nothing but the number of a suicide helpline.

thanks I'm cured!: Exercise, waking up early, meditation, prayer, talking to loved ones, hobbies, etc. I know they want to help, but none of this works because I can't find any meaning in it.

unemployed: I miss having a job and don't know what I'll do when I'm able to find one other than find a bad one that doesn't drug test

veronica pre-depression: I used to be consistently happy and confident and functional or at least optimistic, I got my work done on time and got good grades, I didn't feel like I was at rock bottom, I worked to maintain my relationships and had ambition and pride in my work

weed dependence: my one coping mechanism- I have no alcohol, no nicotine, but when I'm high i forget how sad everything makes me and I get to feel like a kid again.

xeniatrophobia: I'm scared to see a therapist I don't know, so I cannot and will not go to therapy

yuck: my personal hygiene has fallen by the wayside, which means I shower twice a week (only when I'm high/motivated to), my hair is matted into knots the size of golf balls, my skin is scabbed and breaking out, i rarely wear underwear or deodorant, brush my teeth, or wash my face- I know all of this is gross! Again, right now it's just too much

zoloft: the worst. no sex drive, the tiredness/brain fog is worse, mood swings, nausea, fear of serotonin syndrome, psychedelics won't work, and I'm stuck taking it for at least a week more

[sweet-popplio]

Having trouble feeling like PHYSICALLY I am here in reality but mentally it's like I'm not. Wondering if the me I am right now is even real. Maybe it's just my brain not wanting to accept who I've become because I'm so disappointed in myself. Like expectation vs reality and my brain just doesn't want to accept the reality.

I start to question if I am a real person... physically? Yes. I can feel myself here but it's like my soul is not quite connected to my body. Like I am piloting someone else's body until I can find the right one.

I worried that maybe this is psychosis, I know psychedelics like weed can cause people with it to become worse. But I think I am aware enough to know what is reality, even if I don't like it, and to at least function minimally.

I also start to feel disconnected from past memories as if I'm not sure they are my own because they seem to lack the emotion they once had. I'm not sure if this is because of my antidepressants which are known to make me feel nothing at all, or what.

I'm even starting to forget things or memories are slightly warped. Like my brain is looking to actively erase everything to keep me from being hurt thinking about it and maybe what could have been.

Every memory I do remember makes me cry because it felt like better times, wishing that somehow I could go back to when things were simpler. But I know I dealt with shitty things then too, I just used escapism in books and art. But now I feel like I don't even have that.

I'm sure it probably doesn't help now that I am stuck at home, no job, no real routine, so time REALLY starts to feel like an illusion. I honest to god never know what day it is anymore and it's messing with me bad.

I left the apartment today to visit my family and see my dogs. I felt more grounded afterwards like things were a little more normal. I guess I just need to get out and physically talk to other people more. I mean, I have roommates but sometimes you need to physically talk to other people. But that will be hard with covid19.

[ilvaru-alvaru]

i hope it's not too much effort but please all the questions! X

I don’t have anything to do anyways so sure!

1: What is your name and does it mean anything? Julia. Google tells me it means “youthful” but I don’t know if it’s correct.

2: How long have you known your best friend? I have 2 best friends. I have known her for around 8 years now and him for around 6 years.

3: What position do you normally sleep in? On my side.

4: Were you a part of any “clique” in high school? Nope.

5: Who was your favorite teacher in high school and why? My English teacher because she liked the same music as me, lol.

6: Do you wish to travel a lot? Yeah, why not.

7: Did you participate in any sports while in school? Only normal P.E. class.

8: Show a sample of your handwriting: I will do that in an extra post if I can be bothered :D

9: Have you ever given blood? Yes.

10: Do you like the way that you grew up? Partly.

11: Do you like your siblings? Why or why not? I’m not very close with my sister but we get along well.

12: How did you meet your best friend and why did you become friends? I met my female best friend on a website called Habbo Hotel and we started talking because we were both obsessed with Lady Gaga and then, around a year later we met for the concert and the rest is history. I met my male best friend through another friend and we also became friends because we both were obsessed with Lady Gaga. Also both of them, especially the girl, are my soulmates.

13: Name one movie that made you cry. The Last Unicorn.

14: Do you prefer to read poetry, write poetry, or neither? Read.

15: Things about someone that you find attractive? Intelligence, confidence, kindness, individuality.

16: What song are you currently listening to? Somebody to Love by Jefferson Airplane because it’s one of my faves and also has been stuck in my head forever.

17: Have you ever broken a bone? If so, how? Nope, luckily not.

18: A random memory from you childhood: I used to go on holiday to Spain with my grandma and there were lots of stray cats and dogs and she always told me not to pet and feed them because they’re full of fleas etc etc. but I still did it and they always waited for me in the morning and in the evening and it was the best thing ever.

19: Where did you grow up? In a shitty small town full of narrow minded people.

20: What was the last thing you watched on tv? News.

21: Do you think you’d make a good parent? No. I also never want kids.

22: Would you like to meet any of your Tumblr friends in person? Yes!

22: What was the last dream you remember having? I was going to a party in the woods with my friends, we took some shrooms and then I could fly and hit my head on a cloud. I dream the weirdest things man.

23: When is your birthday? 10th of June 1993.

24: How many pillows do you sleep with? I have 6 in my bed but only sleep on two.

25: Do you wear glasses? If so, how long have you been wearing glasses? I wear contact lenses. I got my first glasses when I was 6 but stopped wearing them and that on and off thing went on for years, lol. But now I stick to wearing contacts,

26: What color is your hair? At the moment it’s turquoise but naturally brown with a hint of ginger haha.

27: Name 5 facts about your appearance: This is difficult man. 1. I have tattoos. 2. I always wear my hair either in a ponytail or down with a side parting. 3. I wear bandshirts most of the time because that’s pretty much what my wardrobe consists of now. 4. I’m 1,70m tall. 5. I have two arms and two legs.

28: What is your favorite soda? Coke zero with ice cubes and lemon slices.

29: What is a strange talent that you have? I can imitate Spongebob perfectly.

30: How’s the weather right now? Cloudy but warm.

31: Why did one of your friendships end? Because our lives went in different directions and we just had nothing in common anymore.

32: Who do you miss right now? My grandma. Always my grandma.

33: Why did your last relationship end? Because they were mentally abusing me and I’ve had enough relationships like that and am worth more than that and deserve better.

34: Are you still figuring out who you are? I’m always changing.

35: Have you ever been admitted to a hospital? Why? Yes but that’s private. Nothing embarrassing though.

36: What is your favorite restaurant? I don’t really have one.

37: What is word that you always seem to spell wrong? Margarine and Marmalade both in English and German lol.

38: Would ever adopt kids? No because, as I wrote before, I don’t ever want kids.

39: What is your favorite kind of pizza? Cheeeeeeese!

40: What was your first thought when you woke up this morning? “Why am I awake?”

41: When was the last time you got really really happy and why? The other day because I smoked a ton of weed, listened to psychedelic Rock and just chilled the fuck out and enjoyed myself and my existence and I don’t have that very often.

42: What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever eaten? Shrimps in ice cream.

43: How do you start a conversation? Pretty much always with a question. It’s a good conversation starter.

44: What’s a band you’ve been obsessed with lately? Jefferson Airplane.

45: Do you come from a family “of money?” Not at all, lol. But it’s good that way.

46: Do you have a bucket list? Yes.

47: What is your favorite series of books? ‘Die Elfen’ series by Bernhard Hennen.

48: When was the last time you laughed so hard your stomach hurt? When I visited my friend and one of her friends just acted funny and said stupid stuff.

49: Where do you go when you’re sad? Into the forest.

50: 5 random facts about yourself: 1. I used to have arachnophobia but decided to take some time to learn about and get to know spiders and now they’re my faves. 2. I started collecting herbs for health and cooking and I can highly recommend it. 3. I used to be a real shitty person who always acted really horrible and mean towards people who I thought treated me wrong, when they weren’t, and now I just ignore it and keep on being the kind person I really am. If people are shit to me, I get them out of my life without being childish. 4. I feel like the forest is the only place where I really, truly belong. 5. I’ve suffered from depression, anxiety and other mental illness all my life and am proud to say that I’m still here and still fighting. 

[hippyfuck]

so you survived your suicide attempt...

You're at the end of your rope, you've made your decision to take your life... you set a date and a time and they both come. You're sitting in front of your chosen method whether it be a bottle of pills, a bottle of N, a fat line of H, a small keybump of carfentanyl, a .45, what have you. All you can think of is the peaceful silence, the absence of all your ailments. You're absolutely sure that this time, it'll be different. You've put so much thought and time and energy into this decision that you no longer even think "what if I fail", or "what if there is nothing after death", or maybe even "what if some day I do get better like everyone says".

You begin to prepare your method eagerly waiting for what comes after, or lack thereof. The anticipation of not dealing with whatever's going on grows and becomes an excitement.

Prep is finished, and immediately you go for it. You start taking pills by the dozen... or you roll up that dollar bill and blow your nose one last time to make sure all the drugs hit every cell in your sinuses, or you stand up on that chair and check the length of the noose only to adjust it up 3 more inches.

You take one deep breath, and kick... that chair is halfway across the room. You peek over at it quickly while suspended 7 inches off the ground. Maybe you drift off into a sleep that could only be interpreted as being dead. Some of you may have even tried death by stimulants and remember the insanely fast heart rate, the confusion and euphoria, then the overheating followed by not realizing that you've passed out while on a heroic dose of a cocktail of speeds/entheogens/weed, and psychedelics...

You're sure you're done for... and in your final moments, something just... happens. The rope/fixture break, you wake up from that overdose, you are found before bleeding out or just as you blow that fat line. Your best friend hits you with narcan maybe, your loved ones find you tying up the noose. Just SOMETHING that either saves you from your decision or makes it fail, or resuscitates you.

Now you're forced to go through with psychiatric treatment... How could you NOT be locked away, you ARE mentally ill, of course. They give you meds, group therapy, a break from responsibility, they make sure you eat and are healthy and are safe.

None of the help provided matters though. You're in a dissociated state, you absolutely cannot believe you're still here. You didn't PLAN for ANY of this. Even something as simple as using the bathroom becomes a chore. Talking to anyone? Fuck that. Going back to work? It's not like you're going to do anything anyway so what's the fucking point?

You're trying to carry on, but your answer or solution to everything is "so fucking what? I shouldnt be here anyway". The fog you're stuck in is too thick to ignore, you can't see through it. People will try to talk to you but you can't even think of anything to say to them. You stay silent and don't respond to stimuli. You're trapped in your own head and the pain is more unbearable than before except for the fact that EVERYTHING now reminds you of the stipulations of being alive.

"Snap out of it", or "just try doing this small task" people will say, or "I cant believe what you're going through, but I'm here for you"... but none of this matters because I SHOULDN'T HAVE SURVIVED TO SEE THIS DAY.

No one understands the fog and depersonalization that follows a suicide attempt, and it's so much more painful to have to reintegrate back into society when you just can not break out of the fog. Every time someone says something it just reminds you of how not normal you are. You're broken, apathetic, and useless. And everyone has to remind you just how low you've slipped.

I wish I didn't fail.