#national costume competition | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nochukoo97 · 11 months ago

Text

new beginnings

pairing: ceo!jungkook x figureskater!oc

warnings/summary: oc takes up a new job as a cashier, and she gets a CAT, jk is a little grumpy but he gets better, he’s also annoying by calling oc’s cat a cottonbud LOL, he calls her sweetheart, and oc has a little crushy crush on this hot neighbour, they bump into each other three times, basically they’re destined to meet each other even when they barely know each other

word count: 2.4k+ / TAGLIST OPEN

series masterlist!

“Goddamn, how many pieces of clothing do you own?” Yeji grunts as she helps to pull along two of your suitcases into her apartment’s lift.

“It’s all costumes for my competitions, my coach keeps insisting to keep them in case we need it in the future,” You internally sigh at the thought of your coach, she wasn’t bad by all means, but she constantly pushed you to your limits with countless competitions she enrolled you in. But after all, you didn’t come to Seoul and join the national team expecting a smooth and comfortable journey.

“Anyways, you’ve gotta tap the card right here,” She explains the whole crazy security system here, then passes you the access card to the apartment. One week ago you would’ve probably not expected to be in this situation, now moving in with your best friend, as well as her boyfriend who has begun to sleepover at her place more often than necessary. But right now if it meant that less money would fall out of your bank account, putting up with whatever third-wheeling you were about to go through would make it all worth it.

You pull your other two suitcases into the lift, noticing a man shuffling into the corner to make space for the two of you and your four huge suitcases. The lift door closes and there’s this deafening silence that fills the lift, with the way Yeji widens her eyes at you but says nothing, you assume it might be about the latter standing in the corner of the lift.

“What kind of signals were you trying to send me in there?” You whine when the lift door finally closes, as Yeji abandons the now-rolling-away suitcases to grab onto your hands.

“It’s rolling!” You exclaim, as she jumps slightly, your voice raising a little louder than usual in panic.

“Sorry-sorry, anyways, he’s the guy I told you about! Maybe I can set you up with him,” She wiggles her eyebrows at you, giving you the same taunting look she did when she had proposed moving into her apartment.

“No! I don’t even know that man, anyways with those looks he might already be taken,” You brush your best friend off, anyways, you didn’t want a relationship right? When Yeji had told you about the hot guy in her apartment, you had immediately brushed the idea of being set up off, since that’s exactly how you met your ex, and it definitely did not end on a good note.

“Oh, so you’re attracted to him?” She jogs in front of you to look you in the eye, seemingly much more excited at her sudden discovery than you.

“What? No I didn’t say that? I just- whatever! Open the door!”

She only smirks at your stuttering, but complies as she opens the front door to her unit, and you’re greeted with a familiar sight that you now need to get used to calling home.

People had always praised you for being dainty and sweet, always dressed up in elegant costumes during your competitions, your moves on ice had always charmed the audience with how smooth you twirled and jumped.

You would like to say that they might change their minds when they spot you in this current situation: no makeup on, eyebags peeking through, in a neon green vest as you stare at the rows of cigarettes behind the cashier.

The younger you would have never expected to end up working part time in this convenience store, but here you are.

But somehow it didn’t seem too bad, you were the only worker here, besides a sweet lady who comes and sweeps the floor every evening, and the best part: you got to control the music.

To be honest, you may have been enjoying yourself a little too much with the way you hum to the music as you drink the complimentary-one-a-day coffee your manager had given you.

“One pack of menthol,” Your sudden peace is abruptly disrupted as you whip your head around, jumping slightly as you hear the voice sound from behind you.

Oh. It’s the same man from the lift, this time he’s wearing another suit in a different colour, but this time he seems much more drained than before.

“I said-” He repeats himself again, noticing your spaced out look as you stare straight at him.

“Oh, yeah! Sorry sorry, it’s been a long day,” You quickly gather yourself, mentally cursing yourself for checking out the man in front of you so shamelessly, but he only scoffs at your little mistake.

He’s either a total dickhead or is just having a bad day. Hopefully its the latter since as much as you hate to admit it, maybe he perhaps has caught your attention.

But the same man quickly walks out of the store the moment you return his black credit card, as you’re now once alone in the store, gathering your things to finally end your shift.

It’s only a few days later where you meet your next crisis, or rather a blessing in disguise.

An innocent trip to the local fair turned into you signing adoption papers for this fluffy little furball that you absolutely could not leave. To be fair, you were mainly there to find some cute accessories to buy, but the newly put up adoption booth had caught your eye.

The moment your eyes had met the beady little eyes of the small white cat, you couldn’t say no. Even if it meant paying thrice your income from working at the convenience store, anything would be worth this cat.

But then again, your heart sank further once the lady at the counter had told you the animals put up were free to adopt, or else they would be euthanised the following day. It almost made you attempt to calculate just how much it would cost to take care of all the animals here, but in the end you had settled to just bring the cat home.

“Yeji, hypothetically how mad would you be on a scale of 1 to 10 if I brought a cat home?” You press your phone in between your shoulder and cheek as you wrap the little cat in its blanket, snuggling the animal close to your chest in hopes to provide it more warmth.

“You’re kidding me right now,” You hear her sigh at the other end, “What makes you think we can raise a cat? Let alone you working night shifts and being out at training in the day?”

She wasn’t wrong, but you’re pretty sure it’ll all be okay.

“Trust me, the lady managing the adoption booth told me cats are way more independent, we can get her an automatic feeder and I’ll need to get a litter box too, and maybe some toys and treats on the side too…”

She sighs again, “And that’ll cost a gajillion dollars, where are you going to get that from?”

“I’ll find a way, trust me,”

Truth to be told, the package deal you had got for litter and food was a little more pricey than you had anticipated, but you were confident that it would save you money in the future anyways.

Cloud, the newly named cat, of which you spent many hours deciding on a name for her, was easier to handle than expected, she often played with the little gadget toy Yeji had got her, and learnt how to use her litterbox in a day, which made you come to a conclusion that you had raised a genius.

But yet your oh-so-smart furkid may also be a little too intelligent, the absence of a certain cat in the apartment has now caused your anxiety and hysteria.

“How did she manage to escape with us not noticing again! The last time I saw her crawl through your legs but this time I swear she disappeared into thin air!” You’re on the verge of tears as you tell Yeji, who only rubs her palm up and down your back as a offering of comfort.

“But you’ve got her tagged up, your number and her name is attached to her collar, I’m sure anyone who finds her will definitely call you immediately,” She tells you, watching as you now begin to hiccup, tears forming and rolling down your cheeks.

“What if she got run down by a car? Or some psychopath who hates cats found her? Oh my poor baby, she must be missing me already,” There’s a million different scenarios that play through your head, all leading to Cloud ending up in nowhere else but cat heaven.

“She’ll be fine, calm down, my friend’s cat often runs out of the house but the cat always returns every few days, some of them prefer to go out and explore, perhaps Cloud is the same,”

You can only sigh and hope for the best.

unknown number: hey

unknown number: did you lose a cat?

You gasp to yourself when your eyes scan the new text that had appeared on your screen, someone had found her.

you: YES

you: DON’T DO ANYTHING TO HER PLEASE

you: i promise ill pay anything for you not to do anything

Your heart beats frantically in your chest watching the three dots appear and disappear over and over again. There was no way a psychopath had truly found Cloud and already decided to perform whatever possible traumatic procedure on her right?

unknown number: why would i do anything to it??

unknown number: in fact your cat is the one who had run into my apartment and marked her territory all over.

Oh. That was the last thing you had expected.

you: do you have a litter box in your house?

The three dots taunt you as they appear once and pause for a good minute, as if whoever is on the other side is pondering hard to answer your simple question.

unknown number: what kind of question is that??

unknown number: i dont own a cat, why tf would i own a litter box??

You frown at the reply, you were grateful he didn’t do anything to Cloud, but a simple no would be great.

you: just send me your address!!

you: i need to see if she’s alright, she probably is crying for me right now

unknown number: it’s sleeping peacefully under my bed right now, i dont think its upset at all.

unknown number: here’s the address: xxx

You sigh in relief when you realise it’s the unit above your apartment, which meant she couldn’t have gone too far.

you: first of all, you never know if she’s crying in her heart

you: second of all, stop calling Cloud an it!!! she has a name and she is a girl

you: third of all, im coming upstairs im in the same apartment complex

You roll your eyes when a reply comes in faster than it did before, mostly because it’s an insult to your cat:

unknown number: who names a cat cloud?? she looks more like a cotton bud, hurry and get her.

When you reach the floor above you, you’re met with a black door, no doorbell in sight. So you simply knock, sure that it had been the person that found Cloud since it was the only unit on the floor.

What you didn’t expect is to be met with the same man you saw whilst working at the convenience store. Instead he’s in a loose shirt and some shorts, hair not styled as a few pieces of bangs fall over his eyes. His presence daunts you a little, considering how darkly lit his place was, and how he towered over you.

“Oh? So we meet again,” He seems to recognise you as he steps aside, watching as you take off your bedroom slippers, which you now curse at yourself for wearing since it was pink and fluffy.

You think you hear a little laugh when he spots your slippers but you choose to believe he didn’t anyways.

“Where is my baby?” You step in now, taking in the view of his place. It’s a little larger than Yeji’s apartment, and the interior seems… lacking some colour. It’s mostly black and grey furniture, with hints of marble and some white chairs here and there, but it’s a total opposite of your apartment.

“Don’t think she cares enough to be your baby, but your baby pissed all over my balenciaga shoes and my dumbbells,” He deadpans, nodding his head to show you the dark pair of shoes that now hang at the window, you assume to dry them out.

“Your what shoes?!” You almost turn pale at the mention of the designer brand, there’s no way he might ask you to get him a new pair right?

“Forget about that, go and get Cottonbud out of my room,” He walks into the hallway, looking back once to check if you follow him.

“What did you just call her?!” You yell at him from behind as he enters a room, a bed coming into sight and a much too familiar tail that sticks out from under the bed.

“Cloud!” You’re far too busy attempting to reunite with your cat to bother hearing another reply from the man, but the moment you come closer to the swaying tail, Cloud dashes away from your grasp and hides at the very deep end from under the bed.

“Looks like someone isn’t too keen on seeing you,”

You whip around, a frown on your face as you are met with the man who smirks, almost taunting you.

“Shut up,”

“What’re you gonna do now then? The cat’s gone further under the bed, I can’t reach there either,” He has his hands on his hips, standing and waiting for your reply.

His gaze and posture makes you feel small, and not having a single clue what to do fuels this feeling in you. And perhaps add some butterflies in too and it’ll perfectly describe how you are feeling.

“I- I don’t know! I’ve never had to deal with this situation before!” You’re pacing up and down, glancing at the bed, hoping Cloud would magically pop out and leap into your arms so you can run home away from this man.

“Well I’ve got all day sweetheart, you can slowly find a way to get Cottonbud out of my house,”

“Her name is not Cottonbud!”

“Whatever,”

TAGLIST: @skzthinker @cherrysainttt @vminkookgf @lilaissa @jjeonjjk7 @armystay89 @canyon-lwt @junecat18

#jungkook fluff #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #jungkook ff #jungkook smut #jungkook x oc #bts #boyfriend jungkook #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #bts jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook drabble #jungkook x you

651 notes · View notes

hoe4hotchner · 22 days ago

Text

Chapter 6 - Fractured trust

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x figure skater (fem)!Reader

Summary: The story follows you a figure skater training for nationals and Aaron Hotchner as your lives intertwine during an investigation into the abductions of young athletic women, including the your close friend, Leah. As the BAU delves deeper into the case, you find yourself captivated by Hotch’s quiet strength and protective presence. When Leah’s body is tragically discovered at the rink, the tension escalates, surrounding you in an atmosphere of fear and uncertainty.

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Blood, murder, death, suicide, grief, guilt and confusion. Heavy themes. Reader is a little delulu

A/N: Hotch is a very professional man and therefor doesn't get horny on the job, but there's a part somewhere where he definitely has a mental boner. You'll understand later. ;)

For the record, this was written before Liam Payne died… but some of the feelings are very relevant for a lot of people right now.

Masterlist

The lights overhead flickered briefly, casting long shadows across the conference table where the team had gathered for the night. The quiet hum of the overhead lamps mixed with the steady tap of Garcia’s fingers flying across her keyboard filled the air. The sound was almost rhythmic. Her brightly painted nails moved with such speed and precision that would leave anyone besides the BAU silently in awe. Each tap felt like a countdown, pulling more and more information to the surface.

Garcia’s monitor was a chaotic spread of files, timelines, and news clippings. Photos of Thomas Mercer in his prime, dressed in sparkly costumes, flashed alongside detailed records of his skating career: a golden boy once destined for the Olympics, now reduced to tragedy — one of the headlines wrote. His once-promising future was chronicled in the endless stream of reports and interviews — headlines of victories, discussions where his potential was praised, and then, the downfall — the dreaded downfall of Mercer. The articles began to shift in tone, highlighting his short temper instead of his extraordinary skating techniques, the scandal at his final competition, and the career-ending outburst that left him blacklisted from ever competing within the skating world again.

Hotch paced slowly near the head of the table, his arms crossed tightly against his chest, the tension in his movements mirroring the weight of the case. His steps were methodical, like he was trying to unravel the complexities of the case with each circuit he made around the room. Occasionally, his sharp gaze would fix on Garcia, brows furrowed, his expression intense and unreadable. If it had been anyone else, that look might have felt like a warning — but his team knew him better. It wasn’t frustration aimed at them; it was his way of focusing, of dissecting every piece of information being fed to him.

Garcia was used to his demeanor. Her fingers never faltered as they danced across the keyboard, pulling file after file from the databases, cross-referencing details, and hacking through the sea of data in front of her. Each time she uncovered something relevant, Hotch’s eyes would dart to the screen, laser-focused as if willing the information to form the missing link he was looking for.

“Here’s another record,” Garcia murmured, scrolling through a dense report. She highlighted sections as she spoke, she was calm, but the urgency in her words was unmistakable by the tempo of her voice. “Mercer’s last known address was right outside Arlington — it seems he moved there a few months after that competition — Before he went completely off the grid, he had several altercations with other skaters, coaches… even some journalists. It looks like his rage wasn't limited to just the rink.” Garcia looked up from her screen, waiting for Hotch's thoughts about her findings — or perhaps just his next request for information.

Hotch paused his pacing, his eyes narrowing on the paragraph displayed on the screen as he processed her words. His arms remained crossed, tension building in his shoulders. “Anything from the past few months? Any signs of contact with anyone involved in the case? Or sightings of him?”

Garcia shook her head, pulling up a timeline of Mercer’s movements. “No Sir, nothing recent. The last confirmed interaction with any of the skaters from the pavilion we have is almost five years old, just before his disappearance.”

The rest of the team sat quietly, reviewing the profile. There was a sense of anticipation in the room. They knew Hotch well enough to recognize when he was locked onto something, and right now, that something was Thomas Mercer. Despite your gut feeling — your firm belief that Mercer wasn’t the guy — Hotch wasn’t about to let his name fade from their investigation without turning over every possible stone.

Morgan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he rubbed his face, he looked tired — but it was understandable, none of them had slept much the past couple of weeks. “Any chance he stayed around the Virginia area after the incident?”

Garcia's fingers paused for a second, listening to his question, before resuming their dance across the keyboard. Her tone shifted slightly, more somber than their usual banter. “Actually, no,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the screen. “After his last public appearance in New York, Mercer packed up and left. Looks like he was hoping for a fresh start somewhere else.” She sighed softly, skimming the news article further. “He tried to rebuild his career in Chicago, then moved through a few other cities in the Midwest, but nothing ever stuck in seems. No coach wanted to take the risk on him again after what happened.”

JJ’s brow furrowed as she considered the information, her motherly instincts confused and sad for Mercer. “He didn’t have anyone to help him? No family, or friends? Someone he could've turned?”

Garcia shook her head with a frown on her face as she opened another file. “Not that I can see. His family didn’t seem too involved, at least not after he spiraled. His mother passed away when he was young, and he bounced between his grandparents and father's house. No close friends from what I can tell, either. Most people distanced themselves after his temper started ruining things.” She grimaced, scanning through more of his records. “By the time he left Virginia, Mercer was pretty much on his own.”

Morgan rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling slowly, he couldn't quite figure out why they weren't seeking him out yet. “So, he’s isolated, burned every bridge, and has no support system. Ding ding ding, that's our unsub! Can we go get him now so we can wrap this case up?”

Garcia hesitated, and then her voice softened even further. “That's not exactly the case I fear. He didn’t snap, at least not in the way we’d expect." She took a deep breath, mostly bracing herself to say the words in front of her, at least more so than she was preparing the team for the grim news. "He took his own life six months ago. The last record of him was an obituary. Suicide by overdose.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, they all knew what this meant for the investigation. The team exchanged glances, the weight of the revelation sinking in.

Morgan sighed, shaking his head. “So, we can rule him out as the unsub. I guess it's back to the drawing board then.” Hotch could tell that Morgan wasn't happy, debating whether or not he should send his team home for some well-deserved rest. He could after all just continue the investigation himself — at least now that they were back to square one. 3 dead bodies and a profile with no matches.

Hotch nodded slowly, his expression was just as tired as the rest of the team's as he processed the information given. "His anger could’ve influenced someone else. If someone was close enough to him and shared his views on Leah, they could be carrying out his vendetta in his place — that's if Leah was the target all along."

Hotch’s eyes darkened, his mind already working through the next steps. “We need to look into anyone who was still in contact with him, anyone who might’ve followed him when he moved. Friends, training partners, anyone who sympathized with his situation.” His gaze moved from the screen to the team as he pinched his nose for a brief moment. He exhaled, the weight of the revelation about Mercer hanging in the air. “We’ve done enough for tonight,” he then said, his voice was low — he too sounded tired. “Go home, get some rest. I’ll handle the next steps from here.”

Morgan furrowed his brow, glancing at the chaos of files scattered all across the table. Papers were everywhere — profiles, crime scene photos, timelines — forming a disorganized sea of details that he couldn't quite make head or tail of, each file more confusing than the next.

The weight of the case had long since seeped into other aspects of their lives, thickening the air with fatigue and frustration everywhere they went. They all knew it had become increasingly more personal to Hotch, even if he didn't want to admit it — they all knew just why he wouldn't let this one rest. Maybe even let some of the B-team agents take over the less crucial parts of the profile to catch the killer quicker.

Morgan’s eyes scanned the scene before letting his eyes rest on Hotch, concern etching deeper into his expression. “You sure, Hotch?” Morgan could tell how exhausted Hotch was, maybe even more exhausted than the rest of them combined. “We can stay — there’s still work to be done.”

Hotch shook his head. “We’ve hit a wall for now, and pushing through it while we’re all running on fumes won’t help. Besides—” Hotch hesitated for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a very uncomfortable visit to make to the ice pavilion.”

Emily looked at him, catching onto what he wasn’t saying. “You mean Y/N?”

Hotch’s expression tightened his mouth a firm line as he gave a short, confirming nod. “I have to inform her about Mercer.” His voice was quiet but resolute. He wasn’t just delivering bad news; he was about to shatter your childhood star, one he could tell you had clung to despite his downfall, and that knowledge clearly weighed on him.

The gust of cold air hit Hotch the moment he pushed through the heavy doors of the pavilion, the chill biting a little at his skin despite his overcoat. He pulled it a little tighter around him. His breath formed small clouds in front of him, dispersing into the open space of the arena.

The rink was mostly silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigeration system and the sharp sound of your skates gliding over the ice. He stood still for a moment, scanning the pristine stage of glistening ice. He was searching for a sign — a sign of danger, any sign really.

Most of the non-competing athletes had been relocated to another arena for the duration of the investigation, the once busy rink now lay eerily quiet without the usual crowd of skaters and coaches filling up the space. The echo of several skates cutting into the ice no longer mingled with laughter, casual conversation, or the occasional shouted instructions. Instead, it felt like the ice itself had absorbed the tension hanging in the air.

Only the top few competitors, including yourself, had been granted permission to continue practicing on the rink’s grounds, a privilege meant to ensure that the investigation didn’t interfere with your training schedules. But the shift in the atmosphere was undeniable. What used to feel like home, a place to push yourself to new limits, to hang out with your peers, now felt cold and deserted — a place where shadows lurked, and each practice session was haunted by the weight of what had happened to Leah — and what could happen to you.

The decision to allow only a select few skaters to remain was both a practical and psychological one. It ensured that the competition-ready athletes didn’t falter in their rigorous training, but it also placed a heavy burden on those left behind. Hotch had fought tooth and nail with the local authorities to completely close the rink, but in the end, had to realize that his energy was better spent elsewhere.

For those who remained, every glide on the ice carried the memory of Leah’s absence, you had all known her on a deeper level that the newbies and even the simple act of lacing up skates had become a reminder of her.

You were midair, your body twisting gracefully as you rotated, the fabric of your skirt rippling like water in the air. Time seemed to slow down as Hotch’s eyes locked onto you. The elegance and precision of your movement were captivating in their own mystical way — each twist, each turn measured perfectly. Every muscle in your body was taut with control and power, your focus undisturbed, completely immersed in the flow of your routine.

It was a stark contrast to the tension and unease that swirled in his mind every time he stepped into the pavilion. Here, in your element, there was no sign of the fear or darkness that had invaded your life once you stepped off the ice. Yet, even in the grace of your movements, Hotch knew he carried the weight of a truth that would shatter that fleeting peace.

For a split second, you seemed weightless, suspended in the air, and all Hotch could focus on was how serene and beautiful you looked in that moment — completely absorbed in your world. He hated that he had to break the news to you.

His eyes lingered on the way your dress for sectionals shimmered under the lights, the deep navy-blue fabric hugging your body perfectly, adorned with rhinestones that glittered like stars with every movement. He had never seen you in any of your costumes before, but he vividly remembered the day you had received it in the mail. You had practically dragged JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia into the bullpen to where you had dropped your gym bag, the three of them laughing with joy as you carefully unfolded the dress to show it off. You had huddled together like sisters, fingers tracing over the intricate details of the rhinestones and the delicate stitching, voices bubbling with excitement.

Hotch had caught snippets of the conversation — Emily had been the first to compliment the open back, her eyes widening as she had called it a “showstopper,” while JJ teased you about how you’d have to skate like you were wearing a galaxy. Garcia, of course, had been the most enthusiastic, gasping dramatically and insisting that the dress was “fit for a queen,” urging you to take a thousand photos and videos once you had it on.

It was one of those rare moments in the BAU office where the weight of their work seemed to lift, and he had watched from a distance, quietly amused by the way you all fussed over the dress like it was something sacred. But he guessed this was just a part of the girlhood Garcia once had tried to teach him about.

Seeing you now in it, gliding effortlessly across the ice, each rhinestone reflecting the rink's bright lights like a cascade of stars, he realized the ladies had been right — it truly was a showstopper. Every movement you made transformed the dress into a spectacle of grace, and Hotch found himself mesmerized, momentarily forgetting the heavy news he carried.

The sheer sleeves, dotted with delicate stones, gave an ethereal sparkle to your arms, and the open back added a touch of exposure to your elegance. As you glided across the ice, the dress moved effortlessly with you, enhancing every leap, every graceful spin. Hotch couldn't help but admire how the dress seemed to be an extension of you, amplifying the beauty of your performance.

For a moment, he felt a pang of regret — how could he shatter this peaceful moment with the weight of what he had to say? But he had no choice — you had to know. It was only right.

Time seemed to slow as he kept looking at you. The way you moved, jumped, and spun, and the way your body suspended in the air for brief moments, was like a work of art. Everything about it — the precision, the grace, the sheer effortlessness — was fascinating.

Hotch found himself momentarily lost, watching the way your arms extended, the way your muscles seemed to work in perfect harmony with the ice beneath you. You were beautiful and elegant, in complete control of your world out there.

Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the sound of your skates hitting the ice after another spin brought him back to reality. A sharp crack echoed through the rink as the blade made contact, and you smoothly landed the jump, coming out of it with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. His chest tightened, not only with admiration but with the heavy knowledge of the danger you were unknowingly still in.

You spotted Hotch at the edge of the rink, leaning slightly against the boards with his elbows resting on top of them. A small smile tugged at your lips, and without missing a beat in your routine, you gave him a little wave before gliding toward him with effortless grace. As you neared him, the tension he had been carrying all day seemed to ease, if only for a moment.

When you reached the edge of the rink, you came to a graceful stop, the ice dust spraying lightly from beneath your skates. You leaned casually on the boards, still slightly breathless from your routine, your cheeks flushed from exertion but truthfully, some of it was accredited to Hotch's presence.

“Hey,” you greeted, your voice was soft as you tilted your head slightly with a curious smile. "I wasn’t expecting you to stop by." Your chest heaved with deep breaths as you slowly started regulating your breathing.

For a split second, Hotch found himself captivated by the lightness in your tone and the relaxed nature of your stance. You looked so peaceful. He hesitated, but the weight of his responsibility crashed back to him, but for just a few seconds longer, he allowed himself to linger in the relief he saw reflected in your eyes.

Hotch's lips quirked into a small, almost imperceptible smile. Despite his attempt at a warm greeting, the tension in his face didn’t fade, and it was clear something was pressing heavily on his mind. “I came to see how you were holding up... and to talk. We’ve made some progress.”

You nodded slowly, already suspecting where this conversation was headed. As you caught your breath, you peeled off your gloves, the cold bite of the air clinging to your skin for a moment before you grabbed your jacket and shoved them into the pocket.

"Let me guess — it’s about Mercer?" You tried to keep your tone neutral, but the underlying tension in your voice was unmistakable. Your brows furrowed slightly as you looked at him more closely, scanning his face for any indication of what he was about to say.

There was something about the way Hotch stood in front of you, the stiffness in his posture, the way he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, that made your stomach twist with apprehension — something was wrong. You could sense it.

You already knew. It had to be about Mercer. And yet, a part of you desperately hoped that it wasn’t. Maybe it was something else, someone else, something less personal and something easier to hear. But the serious glint in Hotch’s eyes told you otherwise, and as much as you wanted to delay the inevitable, you couldn’t avoid it. Not anymore.

His eyes softened, knowing this part of the conversation wasn’t going to be easy. He could tell that you wanted answers just as much as they did, but for now, he had to share the news that might complicate things even more.

“Can we sit down?” Hotch asked, gesturing toward the bleachers with a seriousness that made your stomach tighten further.

You nodded, your heart racing as you stepped off the ice. As you pulled on your jacket, the fabric felt like a flimsy barrier against the chill in the air. You walked beside him, each step echoing the moment. When you reached the bleachers, the cold wood bit through the skirt of your costume, sending a shiver up your spine as you sank onto the hard surface.

“What is it?” you asked, anxiety bubbling up in your chest.

Hotch exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as if bracing himself for your reaction. “It’s about Mercer.”

Your heartbeat quickened, echoing in your ears like a drum. “What about him?” The mention of Mercer had a way of igniting your instincts for the worse.

“He... we found out that Mercer moved away from Virginia after his career took a hit,” Hotch began slowly, his gaze fixed on you as he carefully watched your reaction. Each word seemed to hang heavy in the air. “He tried to restart somewhere else, several times, but they didn’t work out for him. A few months after that, he... took his own life.” Hotch paused, waiting for your reaction.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the shock sending your mind spiraling into chaos. “What?” you blinked rapidly, struggling to grasp the gravity of what he was saying. The words felt surreal, as if they belonged to some distant reality you couldn’t quite comprehend. “No, you’re lying,” you stammered, shaking your head in disbelief, the denial instinctively rising within you. “That can’t be true.” The thought of Mercer — someone you had looked up to, someone whose struggles had seemed so distant for the past couple of years — now felt like an insurmountable reality crashing down around you. Confusion mingled with grief, leaving you reeling as you fought to process the enormity of his loss.

You sat there, numbness spreading through your limbs as Hotch’s words echoed in your mind. How could someone who had once been so vibrant and talented reach such a devastating conclusion? The reality of his absence felt like a punch to the gut, leaving you gasping for air in the wake of an unthinkable tragedy.

Hotch didn’t say anything. He just held your gaze, his eyes filled with a sadness that seemed to resonate deeply within you. Although his sadness wasn't from Mercer, he couldn't care less about whether Mercer was dead or alive.

You stared at him, waiting for him to say something — anything — that would make it all make sense. You needed him to tell you that he was lying, to offer a glimmer of hope, some explanation that could ease the weight of reality. But he didn’t. He didn’t have to. The truth was written plainly in the way he looked at you, and it hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and reeling.

“No… no, no, no,” you muttered, talking more to yourself than to him. “That doesn’t make any sense. I don’t… I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be…” The words tangled on your tongue, each syllable feeling heavy as your thoughts spiraled, struggling to catch up with the overwhelming truth. “How could I not know this?” Your voice broke in a whisper of disbelief. “How—”

You felt tears welling up, blurring your vision as the reality of the situation pressed down harder. It was as if the ground had fallen away beneath your feet. Memories of Mercer flooded your mind — moments you had taken for granted now twisted into reminders of what was lost. The guilt settled on your shoulders, heavy and suffocating, as you grappled with the haunting question of how someone like him could slip away without a trace.

Hotch’s hand found its way to your knee, his grip gentle but firm, grounding you in the moment as the world around you felt like it was slipping away. He didn’t say anything; words seemed inadequate in the face of such sorrow like nothing he would say would help. Yet, the warmth of his hand was enough. His presence was enough. It felt like an anchor in the stormy sea of your emotions, and it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart and shattering completely.

You wiped at your face, desperately trying to collect yourself, but the tears kept coming, each drop a testament to the pain that surged through you. The truth of Mercer’s loss felt like a dark cloud. You fought against the rising tide of grief, knowing you had to hold on.

The atmosphere in the BAU had shifted dramatically as the investigation dragged on. Each passing day brought new leads and new revelations, and with them came the undeniable sense that the stakes were rising with every hour. You could feel the pressure mounting, pressing down on your chest, leaving little room to breathe every time Hotch called you in to consult on anything related to the pavilion or figure skating.

The latest briefing had peeled back another layer of the investigation, revealing unsettling details about the unsub’s profile that sent shivers down your spine. The pieces were falling into place, but nothing had fully prepared you for what lay ahead.

When Hotch called you a couple of days later to witness an interrogation, you felt a surge of unease. You hadn’t expected to find yourself standing on the other side of a one-way mirror, watching someone you once respected face the full force of the BAU’s investigation.

Hotch’s intense interrogation techniques were on full display, each question designed to unearth the truth buried beneath layers of possible deceit. You watched intently as he leaned in, his voice commanding as it cut through the defiance of the suspect. It was a side of him you hadn't seen before, but witnessing it so closely now felt unsettling, especially knowing the personal dots connecting you further and further to the case.

Eric Collins. The name echoed in your mind, carrying a weight of respect and admiration that felt almost nostalgic. He had been a well-known coach at the rink where you had started your journey, a place that now felt like a lifetime ago. You could still picture the early mornings spent training under his watchful eye, his voice echoing in the chill, guiding you through every jump and spin. He had been more than just a coach to you; he had been a mentor, instilling a passion for the sport and a sense of discipline that shaped your formative years.

His sharp eye for technique and authoritative demeanor both on and off the ice set him apart. He was, without a doubt, the best of the best. You remembered how other skaters looked up to him, their eyes filled with admiration and a hint of fear, as he commanded respect with his presence alone. But as you transitioned to training under Branson at the pavilion, the dynamics shifted. Rumors began to swirl in the community, whispers that you were too young to fully comprehend at the time.

Looking back, you realized how those discussions had lingered in the air amongst the older skaters at the pavilion, like an unshakeable cloud. You now fully understood why they had been as cold to you in the beginning as they had. Was it jealousy? Disappointment? Perhaps a mix of both? You hadn’t understood the implications of your choice then, but the murmurs had reached your ears, and they had certainly reached the ears of your parents. They stirred a mix of emotions that you now recognized — loyalty to your roots clashing with the desire for growth. Eric had been a pivotal figure in your life, but as you navigated your own path, you wondered if he held a grudge against you for the choices you'd made as a young teenager and the fallout that had followed between you.

Now, as you stood in the cold, sterile confines of the observation room, watching Eric sit across from Hotch, a new sense of unease gripped you. The years had changed him in ways you hadn’t anticipated. The once-confident figure now looked worn and weary, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bearing the weight of countless burdens. You studied him through the glass, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one you once knew so well.

His face was now etched with lines of tension that spoke of stress and anxiety. The vibrant spark in his eyes had dulled. As you watched, his gaze darted nervously around the room, flitting from what you could only guess was the famous Hotchner stare — that Emily had told you to look out for — to the sterile walls, as though searching for an escape from the uncomfortable situation.

He seemed to have lost that light in him you remembered from your early days as a skater, swallowed by whatever shadows had crept into his life since those days. You couldn't help but wonder what had happened to him in the years since you had last shared the ice. What struggles had he faced? What demons lurked just behind his mask?

Hotch sat directly across from him. The atmosphere crackled with tension, an almost tangible force that made it hard to breathe — even for you.

But it was the slow unraveling of Collins’ responses that tightened the knot in your stomach. You watched as he fidgeted in his chair, his fingers tapping against the table in a nervous rhythm. His answers came out short and to some extent evasive as if he were struggling to articulate the truth or perhaps deliberately avoiding it. Each word he uttered felt heavy with implications, and the more he spoke, the more unease settled deep into your bones.

With each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that something was very wrong.

Collins wasn’t just nervous—he was hiding something. The longer you watched him squirm in his chair, the more you realized that the respect you had once held for him had now become a distant memory, overshadowed by a creeping sense of dread. It was unsettling to witness a man who had once stood as a pillar of strength now appeared so fragile, unraveling under the pressure of a single unit chief of the FBI.

Hotch’s voice broke through your swirling thoughts. “Mr. Collins, we need to know about your relationship with Leah and any potential conflicts you may have had with her.” The directness of his question pierced the atmosphere in the room like a sharp blade, demanding answers that Collins seemed reluctant to provide.

You weren't even sure if he knew Leah, maybe only by word of mouth.

You could see Collins stiffen at the mention of Leah’s name though, his expression shifting momentarily as if Hotch had struck a nerve. Would he deny knowing her, or would he confess to something? As Collins hesitated, a flicker of something — fear? Guilt? — crossed his face, and you felt a flash of goosebumps running down your spine.

Eric shifted in his seat, crossing his arms tightly over his chest in a defensive posture that immediately set off warning bells in your mind. It was as if something within him had suddenly flicked a switch, burying any nerves deep down where they could no longer be seen. This abrupt shift in demeanor was unsettling.

“I’ve never even met the girl. How could I have anything to do with her murder?” he snapped, the irritation sharp in his voice, cutting through the air like a knife. The fervor in his denial felt desperate.

His words, though defiant, rang hollow, as if they had been rehearsed for this very moment. The conviction behind them seemed more like a facade, a flimsy shield against the truth. Hotch didn’t flinch at the outburst; his expression remained stoic and composed. However, you noticed how his eyes sharpened, narrowing slightly as he focused intently on Collins. It was the look of a seasoned profiler who could sense the cracks in a lie, who understood that the truth often lay buried beneath layers of bravado and evasion.

“Your name came up in several interviews with Leah's friends and teammates,” Hotch said, his voice steady as he kept his focus on Collins. His gaze only flicked momentarily to the file in front of him, where he slightly skimmed the printed-out interview notes. “They mentioned that you were upset when Leah started outperforming your skaters,” Hotch pressed. The implication of his words was clear, and you could see the way Collins' jaw tightened at the mention of Leah's success. “Was there any reason you might have wanted to hurt her, Mr. Collins?”

As Hotch posed the question, you could sense the tension in the room ramping up. Collins shifted in his seat again, his body language betraying his increasing discomfort under Hotch's stare. The defensiveness that had initially shrouded him was slowly giving way to distress.

You watched as Collins swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his response carefully, as if calculating the repercussions of every word that might slip from his lips.

“I wasn’t upset,” Collins ground out, his voice audibly laced with irritation. The denial spilled from him like a plea, but it felt forced. “Leah had talent — more than most, I'll admit that.”

“I encouraged all of my skaters to watch her competition videos,” he continued, his tone growing more defensive. “I would never harm one of my skaters — past, present, or potential ones. This is ridiculous, what you're accusing me of!” The last words erupted from him with exasperation, echoing off the walls of the interrogation room.

As he spoke, you could see the agitation flicker across his face, the way his hands clenched into fists on the table, as if he were trying to anchor himself.

Hotch’s expression remained unreadable, but you knew he was picking apart every word, every twitch of Eric’s face. There was something more here, something beneath the surface, and you could see it in the way Eric’s defensiveness bordered on desperation.

It was becoming clearer by the second — Eric Collins was hiding something.

Memories of your time training under Eric Collins flooded your mind, each recollection a tangled web of emotions. You remembered the moments when his praise felt like validation, lifting your spirits and fueling your ambition. His approval had been intoxicating, making you believe you could achieve greatness on the ice. Which you had. But alongside those moments were flashes of resentment and jealousy you had overheard from fellow skaters — conversations whispered in hushed tones behind closed doors.

There had always been rumors about Collins' character once skaters moved on from his teaching. Tales circulated about the way he held grudges against those who didn’t meet his lofty expectations, and how he could turn a blind eye to their accomplishments if they fell short of his standards.

Those whispers, which had once seemed easily dismissible, now gnawed at the edges of your consciousness, transforming into a haunting echo of warning.

As you recalled the sharp glances and muted conversations, you began to question everything you had once believed about him. Was there truth buried in those rumors? The thought made your stomach churn, the contrast between the mentor you once admired and the man sitting across from Hotch became more pronounced.

You crossed your arms, closing your eyes, trying to calm your mind for a moment.

Could someone you once respected, someone you thought you knew, really be capable of such violence? If that were true, what did it mean for the rest of the people in your circle? — the ones you had considered friends, mentors, allies? Were the supportive voices you relied on truly as trustworthy as you had believed throughout your whole career?

Each name that came to mind — friends and mentors who had cheered you on, who had stood beside you through countless competitions — now became shadowed by doubt. The friendly faces you’d shared victories and defeats with suddenly appeared as if they might be masking darker intentions, leaving you questioning not only Collins’ integrity but also the loyalty of those around you.

“Mr. Collins, we have a source who mentioned that you had very high expectations for your skaters,” Hotch stated, his gaze locking onto Eric’s, refusing to let him evade the question. “She also mentioned that if someone didn’t meet those expectations, you had a reputation for being... cruel and degrading. Care to elaborate on that?”

Hotch’s tone was measured, his calm demeanor belying the intensity. Hotch was making half-statements now, twisting your words as the source in a way that felt almost accusatory of Collins. You had never experienced anything but motivation from Collins, who had always pushed you to be your best. Yet, as you looked at Eric’s posture, you couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that maybe there was more to the story.

“Cruel?” Collins scoffed. “I pushed my skaters to succeed because I believed in them! High expectations are part of coaching; it’s how they grow.”

You felt the urge to defend him, but the truth was, you couldn’t definitively deny the claims. While your experiences had been largely positive, you knew there were other skaters who had left his coaching, some of whom had openly complained about their time with him. What had they endured that you hadn’t witnessed? Was there a darker side to his coaching style that you were blind to because of your age at the time?

We need to understand how your methods affected your skaters, Mr. Collins. Were you ever frustrated with them when they didn’t perform to your standards?”

“Of course I was frustrated; I wanted them to succeed. But frustration isn’t cruelty. I cared for my skaters; I wanted them to be the best they could be.”

“But did that frustration ever turn into something more?” Hotch pressed his tone sharper now. “Did it ever make you cross the line?”

Eric’s eyes flared, his defenses rising once again. “I never hurt anyone!” he snapped, the denial laced with a defensiveness that felt more and more like desperation. “That’s a stretch!” Eric snapped, his voice rising defensively. “Do you know how competitive this world is? It’s about pushing your limits, not punishment. You push hard, or you get left behind. That’s how it works.”

Hotch didn’t flinch, his gaze steady as he countered, “Perhaps. But competition can also breed resentment. It’s human nature. You’ve got to admit, Mr. Collins, you’ve had conflicts with Leah. Whether you want to acknowledge them or not, they existed.”

“I had conflicts with a lot of skaters. It’s part of coaching! It doesn’t mean I wanted to hurt anyone. Leah was good, but she wasn’t the only one. I had others to think about.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, his voice calm yet unwavering. “But Leah stood out, didn’t she? It’s clear she had potential that could overshadow your skaters. It’s understandable that you might have felt threatened, even if you didn’t intend for that to turn into murder.”

Collins opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, the fight leaving his eyes as he looked away. “I didn’t feel threatened,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I just wanted to see all of my skaters succeed. It’s what any coach would want.”

Hotch pressed on, sensing the slight crack in Collins’ defenses. “Yet, your behavior can speak volumes, Mr. Collins. Did you ever say anything to Leah that could have fueled her resentment toward you? Any comments about her performance or her place among your skaters?”

Eric’s expression shifted again. “I may have said things in the heat of the moment. But that doesn’t mean I wanted her gone! I wanted her to succeed! Just not at the cost of my own skaters.” He muttered the last part, hoping Hotch wouldn't catch it.

“You don’t have to be a monster to contribute to a toxic environment, Mr. Collins. Sometimes, even unintended actions can lead to devastating consequences. We just need you to be honest with us about your relationship with Leah and how it may have affected her.”

“I may not have treated her as kindly as I should have,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I had high expectations, and maybe I let my frustrations get the better of me. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to see her hurt! I never wished her harm.”

Hotch nodded, allowing the moment to sink in. “You must understand how your actions are perceived, Mr. Collins. Words can wound just as deeply as physical actions, especially in a competitive atmosphere.”

“Fine! I’ll admit I didn’t always handle things perfectly,” Collins said, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. “But I still didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. I never crossed that line.”

As Hotch prepared to wrap up the interrogation, you felt a sense of bittersweet resolution. Collins wasn’t the monster you had feared he might be, but he was also not the respected coach you had once known.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Collins,” Hotch said. “We may have more questions for you in the future.”

Hotch approached you in the bullpen as you were gathering your few things. He leaned against a nearby desk, arms crossed and a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Are you starting to feel ready for sectionals?” he asked.

You paused, giving him a small glance as you rifled through your bag for your guards to your skates. “I think so. I’ve been training hard, but the nerves always kick in right before,” you admitted, trying to sound more confident than you felt with everything going on.

Hotch chuckled softly, an amused glint in his eyes. “Nerves are normal. Just remember all the hard work you’ve put in. You’ve prepared well.” He watched you as you packed. “What tricks are you planning?” He asked. As if he knew what the words coming out of your mouth would mean.

You shrugged slightly, your fingers brushing over the smooth blades of your skates. They needed to be sharpened you thought. “I’m hoping to nail my triple salchow this time. I’ve been practicing the entry and landing, but I still feel a bit off sometimes. Maybe it's my blades?” You glanced up at him, gauging his reaction. “Do you think I’m pushing it?”

“I'd like to say not at all, but I honestly have no clue what you just said meant” he replied firmly raising his brows a little with amusement. “You know your limits better than anyone. Trust your instincts out there. You’ve got the talent and the drive.”

As you zipped up your bag, a commotion near the entrance caught your attention. You glanced over for a brief moment, and your heart dropped as you saw Eric Collins being led out of the office by one of the agents.

His demeanor was stiff, and his eyes flicked around the room like a trapped animal searching for an escape. You didn’t notice his gaze land on you; you were too absorbed in your conversation with Hotch.

“Are you going to be at the rink to watch me practice?” you winked, trying to divert your focus back to your upcoming competition.

“If danger is lurking” Hotch replied, his expression softening. “I'll be there.”

You smiled at that, appreciating the effort. “Maybe you can give me some pointers after I skate.”

“I’ll try not to embarrass you too much with my lack of skating knowledge,” he joked, and you laughed lightly, the tension from earlier dissipating.

But from the corner of your eye, you noticed Eric’s eyes narrowing as he caught sight of you, his expression darkening for just a moment before the agent nudged him forward. The contact was fleeting; you were too lost in your conversation to fully grasp the change in Collins’ demeanor.

“Just keep your focus and enjoy it,” Hotch continued, breaking you from your thoughts. “Competitions are meant to be exhilarating, not just nerve-wracking.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks, Hotch.” You tossed your bag over your shoulder, feeling a sense of determination swell within you. As you turned to head out, you glanced back to look for Eric for a moment, but he was already gone.

“Good luck,” Hotch said as you headed toward the door. You turned, giving him a small smile before stepping out into the hallway.

As you stepped out of the academy building, the chill of the evening air enveloped you, it felt nice compared to the heavy air in the observation room just moments earlier. The sun had dropped below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in shades of indigo and deepening shadows.

Each step you took echoed on the pavement, the rhythmic sound barely breaking the silence that hung in the air.

You were lost in thought, replaying Eric Collins' defensive outbursts in your mind as you walked home while trying to shake off the lingering unease that had settled in your chest. Just focus on the sectionals, you told yourself.

Sectional should have been your main concern, you should've prioritized your training more, you thought.

You turned the corner onto your street, and a bizarre sensation skittered along your spine. Something felt off. Way off. The streetlights flickered erratically as if all the bulbs were about to die at the same time. They cast long, warped shadows that danced unnervingly on the pavement. You quickened your pace, eager to reach your apartment. Quickly. The comforting familiarity of home was just a few moments away. You needed to get home.

But as you approached your front door, your heart plummeted into your stomach. There, slumped against the door, was a figure. A figure you hadn't hoped to see. You froze, dread pooling in your gut as your breath caught in your throat. It was Mark. He was splayed awkwardly against the wood, the grotesque sight of him sending waves of nausea crashing over you.

The moonlight was the only source of light illuminating the horrific scene. Branson’s body was lifeless, his face twisted in a final expression of shock and pain.

An ice pick protruded from his heart, it looked to be buried deep, and a dark pool of blood blossomed around it, seeping into the cracks of the pavement. Your hands trembled as you took a hesitant step closer, your heart racing with fear.

But the real horror struck when your gaze flicked up. Scrawled in bold, jagged letters on your door, the words "You’re next" glared back at you in bright red blood, it was dripping slightly as if it had just been written mere moments ago. It sent a chill down your spine, a reminder of the threat moving closer and closer to you.

You staggered back, almost stumbling to the ground, panic rising in your throat. The reality of what you were witnessing crashed over you like a wave, drowning out all rational thought. This wasn’t just a sick prank or a random act of violence; this was something deliberate and calculated. Branson wasn’t breathing, his life extinguished in an instant. He had been alive only moments before your arrival, you were sure of it.

With your heart racing wildly, and your vision blurred with fright, you fumbled for your phone, your fingers slick with sweat as they trembled. You somehow managed to dial Hotch’s number, the ringing in your ear sounding almost deafening against the silence surrounding you. Each tone amplified your fear. When he finally picked up, the voice that came through sounded tired, as if you'd woken him from a nap.

“Hotch,” you gasped, the words struggling to form as the terror seized your throat. You barely recognized your own voice as you uttered a soft, broken whimper, “Help.”

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the silence stretching between you. You could hear Hotch stumbling to his feet, the sound of something heavy clattering to the floor echoing in your ear as he processed the raw fear in your voice. His quick breaths came through the phone, each one heavy with concern.

All the while, your gaze remained locked on Branson’s lifeless body, the sight seared into your mind. The dark stain of blood beneath him only grew larger with each passing moment. You couldn’t tear your eyes away, transfixed by the brutality of it all — the blood, the ice pick, the message on your door.

"I'll be there!" The line went silent as Hotch hung up.

Tag list: @love4lando @therealbaberuthless @crazyunsexycool @pear-1206 @bookworm124 @itsmytimetoodream @c-losur3 @lumestar @evvy96 @booknerd2004 @werebearcocoon

103 notes · View notes

submariini · 1 year ago

Text

When Finland’s Käärijä took the stage at this year’s Eurovision, a star was instantly, explosively born. With an outrageous energy, infectious presence and that oh-so-catchy hook, the Vantaa-based rapper may not have won the contest but he certainly snatched the hearts of those in his home country and beyond. We ask Käärijä the million dollar question: what next?

[full article under the cut]

Last May, a peculiar frenzy engulfed Finland. Virtually all green foods – cucumbers, especially – were sold out from stores. Buildings across the land were bathed in vivid green lights. Social media brimmed with green-themed parties, while data obtained by Swedish fintech company Klarna showed a 570 per cent increase in the online sales of neon green shirts.

This phenomenon was all thanks to Käärijä, the rapper who represented Finland in the 2023 Eurovision Song Contest. His now-infamous, blazing green puff sleeve bolero – dreamt up by Finnish broadcasting company Yle’s costume design team and which he dons when performing the smash hit track ‘Cha Cha Cha’ – had taken on a life of its own, the lush hue uniting the entire nation amid the competition. “It was incredible to see it happen and so cool being part of it,” Käärijä says. “It wasn’t planned at all – it was the people who created the commotion. I’ll definitely never forget it.”

When we speak over Zoom, Käärijä, whose real name is Jere Pöyhönen, is lounging in his minimal apartment in Vantaa, a city just outside Helsinki. He appears on my screen shirtless, a chunky gold chain dangling on his neck. On his head sits a pastel turquoise cap adorned with little cat ears. As he gestures with his hands, I spot flashes of poison green nail varnish. Pöyhönen’s chosen attire, or lack thereof, is extremely fitting – he typically performs bare-chested (“It gets so hot during my gigs”) and his Instagram handle is @paidatonriehuja, or ‘shirtless rascal’.

Hot off a performance in western Finland, the 29-year-old is enjoying his first days off in a while. It’s been a sweltering summer of non-stop touring, with fans flocking to festivals and concerts nationwide to see his explosive live show. Things are not winding down either, with Käärijä heading off on his first-ever European tour this month. Some of these shows sold out in mere minutes, an indication of his immense international following. “It’s so exciting; I’m definitely jumping into a new territory with that tour,” Pöyhönen says. “But I don’t have any expectations – I’m just going to let everything happen organically rather than stressing about it.”

Although he created one of this year’s buzziest songs, the guy on my screen is humble and, save for his look, almost un assuming. I remark on the stark contrast to his fiery and flamboyant stage presence. “Through Käärijä, I get to channel all the craziness, quirkiness and hyperactivity I’ve had since I was a child,” Pöyhönen says, describing himself offstage as “just this ordinary dude”. Without delving into further details, he tells me that the name Käärijä (translating roughly to moneymaker) stems from a history with gambling. Despite the darkness of its origin, he notes that the moniker is to be taken with a grain of salt.

While it might seem like Käärijä exploded into the public consciousness from obscurity, Pöyhönen has a long journey in music behind him. Born in Helsinki but having spent most of his youth in Vantaa, he started dabbling in the medium at just three years old. Coming from a musical family (“My dad and big brother both play the guitar”), jamming sessions were commonplace in the Pöyhönen household, his instrument of choice being the drums. “I was playing with pots and spoons before I got a set of those plastic kids’ drums,” he says. “When we moved to a bigger house, we built a band room downstairs where me and my brother spent a lot of time practising.”

At that time, rap music hadn’t yet entered Pöyhönen’s life; he was strictly a self-described “metal guy”. His older brother had instilled in him a love for the genre, particularly metal icons Rammstein. Upon starting high school, his musical taste broadened and he began listening to Eminem and popular Finnish rap groups Fintelligens and JVG. “Me and my friends were filming our own music videos to old rap songs, learning the words by heart,” Pöyhönen says. “It [making rap music] pretty much started as this humour thing I did with my mates.”

Encouraged by his loved ones, Pöyhönen began writing his own songs, still playing it for laughs. Turned out he had a knack for it. “Since I was little, I’ve been an avid storyteller – my imagination ran a little wilder than the rest of the kids’ at my school,” he says. “So when I started making music, I didn’t even need inspiration; I was able to whip up the lyrics from my head.”

But then, at 15, an unexpected turning point came by way of a severe sudden illness. Rushed to the hospital with ulcerative colitis, a chronic inflammatory bowel disease, Pöyhönen underwent emergency surgery to remove his colon. Had he not been treated immediately, the complications could have been fatal. “I was writing songs in the hospital – music became a source of strength for me,” he says. “I decided that if I make it through this, I’m going to give my all to music and be serious about it.”

After over a decade of hard work and countless hours in the studio, Käärijä released his first album, Fantastista (Fantastic), in 2020, but it would take three years for him to become a household name in Finland. After snapping up the top prize in Uuden Musiikin Kilpailu (the Finnish contest for new music) with his party anthem ‘Cha Cha Cha’, a song dedicated to a hedonistic night out fusing rap, electronic music and metal, he secured the coveted spot as his country’s entrant for the 2023 Eurovision, held in Liverpool. One of Pöyhönen’s craziest dreams had come true.

For Pöyhönen, Eurovision was “an amazing but immensely tough experience”. The event’s intense schedule and the little time carved out for practising surprised the artist. There was no room for errors or retakes once it was time for rehearsals. “They didn’t give much mercy,” he says. On the bright side, the long days filled with “lots of press conferences and waiting around” gave Pöyhönen a chance to get to know the other artists. “The group we had there was wonderful – there wasn’t a competitive atmosphere at all,” he says. One of the contestants he became especially close with was Sweden’s Loreen, with whom he exchanged numbers and promised to “meet up and talk about everything else but music”.

By the time the grand finale came, Käärijä’s explosive performance and infectious song had made him one of the favourites to win. Ultimately he came second, while Loreen nabbed first place. How did Pöyhönen handle the letdown? “It was a huge disappointment, but in the end, the feeling didn’t last long,” he says. “When I thought about how far I’d gotten, the incredible journey it was and all the new friends I made, I realised that these things are far more meaningful than winning.” Plus, he still achieved something major: ‘Cha Cha Cha’ made history as the first ever Finnish song to reach Spotify’s global most-listened charts. The track’s reach proved to Pöyhönen that language doesn’t matter; it’s all about creating a singular, infectious sound: “The mouth is just as much of an instrument as the piano or the guitar is,” he says.

Having made history, I ask Pöyhönen if he felt any pressure after the Eurovision bubble had burst. “Of course there are the thoughts of ‘what now?’ and ‘is this going to be it, will anyone be interested anymore next year?’ – I’m aware that the hype won’t last forever,” he says. “But I’m onto creating the next thing, trying not to feel any pressure for future releases. I haven’t done that before, so why would I do that now?”

Pöyhönen hints at a new album dropping sometime next year, but in the meantime, he’s enjoying the attention – including his Vogue Scandinavia debut. Shot at the extraordinary home of the late interior architect Antti Nurmesniemi and his wife, textile artist Vuokko Nurmesniemi, we find the space where Pöyhönen and Käärijä meet, the quiet confidence mingling with that more-is-more persona.

And while Käärijä might develop as a character (“I want to show that he’s more than just a bolero chap”), he’s adamant that he will stay true to his music and keep singing in Finnish, despite the sudden international attention. “In the end, I’m doing this for myself,” he says. “Also, why change something that works?”

Photographer: Karoliina Bärlund Stylist: Sanna Silander Talent: Käärijä Hair Stylist and Makeup Artist: Neea Kuurne Photographer Assistant: Milja Laakso Stylist Assistant: Nelli Korhonen

#käärijä #jere pöyhönen #eurovision #the article in full

559 notes · View notes

landofadonises · 8 months ago

Text

Adonis Costume-Con - Superheroes; Spiderman Contest

++ Renny's Note: This is another prompt that began from the devious mind of @imaginary-muscle. ♥

It's important to remember that, just because the newer generations were getting absolutely slammed with muscle, doesn't mean the niches of particular interests faded into the darkness in exchange for working out and chugging supplements. Everyone always finds time for what they love, and those with the parents that had extensive comic book collections (mint condition, mind you) and movie libraries taking up a whole shelf of the TV stand bookcase were donned with the love for superhero culture just like generations prior.

Comic-Con was quickly replaced with a more all-encompassing "Costume-Con". There would still be competitions held at Costume-Con for best costume, look-alike, etc., featuring much more breadth of topics, but they just had to account for everyone being... a hell of a lot more swole.

Funnily enough, it started being the case that the superheroes just started being associated with more muscle by standard, drawings and new publications gradually stacking them up in weight classes until they started matching those that adored them in the nation of Adonis.

#hugemuscle #hypermuscle #supertall #plausiblesizedifference #macro #adoniscostumecon #ai gay #gay

86 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 26 days ago

Text

A long trip on an American highway in the summer of 2024 leaves the impression that two kinds of billboards now have near-monopoly rule over our roads. On one side, the billboards, gravely black-and-white and soberly reassuring, advertise cancer centers. (“We treat every type of cancer, including the most important one: yours”; “Beat 3 Brain Tumors. At 57, I gave birth, again.”) On the other side, brightly colored and deliberately clownish billboards advertise malpractice and personal-injury lawyers, with phone numbers emblazoned in giant type and the lawyers wearing superhero costumes or intimidating glares, staring down at the highway as they promise to do to juries.

A new Tocqueville considering the landscape would be certain that all Americans do is get sick and sue each other. We ask doctors to cure us of incurable illnesses, and we ask lawyers to take on the doctors who haven’t. We are frightened and we are angry; we look to expert intervention for the fears, and to comic but effective-seeming figures for retaliation against the experts who disappoint us.

Much of this is distinctly American—the idea that cancer-treatment centers would be in competitive relationships with one another, and so need to advertise, would be as unimaginable in any other industrialized country as the idea that the best way to adjudicate responsibility for a car accident is through aggressive lawsuits. Both reflect national beliefs: in competition, however unreal, and in the assignment of blame, however misplaced. We want to think that, if we haven’t fully enjoyed our birthright of plenty and prosperity, a nameable villain is at fault.

To grasp what is at stake in this strangest of political seasons, it helps to define the space in which the contest is taking place. We may be standing on the edge of an abyss, and yet nothing is wrong, in the expected way of countries on the brink of apocalypse. The country is not convulsed with riots, hyperinflation, or mass immiseration. What we have is a sort of phony war—a drôle de guerre, a sitzkrieg—with the vehemence of conflict mainly confined to what we might call the cultural space.

These days, everybody talks about spaces: the “gastronomic space,” the “podcast space,” even, on N.F.L. podcasts, the “analytic space.” Derived from some combination of sociology and interior design, the word has elbowed aside terms like “field” or “conversation,” perhaps because it’s even more expansive. The “space” of a national election is, for that reason, never self-evident; we’ve always searched for clues.

And so William Dean Howells began his 1860 campaign biography of Abraham Lincoln by mocking the search for a Revolutionary pedigree for Presidential candidates and situating Lincoln in the antislavery West, in contrast to the resigned and too-knowing East. North vs. South may have defined the frame of the approaching war, but Howells was prescient in identifying East vs. West as another critical electoral space. This opposition would prove crucial—first, to the war, with the triumph of the Westerner Ulysses S. Grant over the well-bred Eastern generals, and then to the rejuvenation of the Democratic Party, drawing on free-silver populism and an appeal to the values of the resource-extracting, expansionist West above those of the industrialized, centralized East.

A century later, the press thought that the big issues in the race between Richard Nixon and John F. Kennedy were Quemoy and Matsu (two tiny Taiwan Strait islands, claimed by both China and Taiwan), the downed U-2, the missile gap, and other much debated Cold War obsessions. But Norman Mailer, in what may be the best thing he ever wrote, saw the space as marked by the rise of movie-star politics—the image-based contests that, from J.F.K. to Ronald Reagan, would dominate American life. In “Superman Comes to the Supermarket,” published in Esquire, Mailer revealed that a campaign that looked at first glance like the usual black-and-white wire-service photography of the first half of the twentieth century was really the beginning of our Day-Glo-colored Pop-art turn.

And our own electoral space? We hear about the overlooked vs. the élite, the rural vs. the urban, the coastal vs. the flyover, the aged vs. the young—about the dispossessed vs. the beneficiaries of global neoliberalism. Upon closer examination, however, these binaries blur. Support for populist nativism doesn’t track neatly with economic disadvantage. Some of Donald Trump’s keenest supporters have boats as well as cars and are typically the wealthier citizens of poorer rural areas. His stock among billionaires remains high, and his surprising support among Gen Z males is something his campaign exploits with visits to podcasts that no non-Zoomer has ever heard of.

But polarized nations don’t actually polarize around fixed poles. Civil confrontations invariably cross classes and castes, bringing together people from radically different social cohorts while separating seemingly natural allies. The English Revolution of the seventeenth century, like the French one of the eighteenth, did not array worn-out aristocrats against an ascendant bourgeoisie or fierce-eyed sansculottes. There were, one might say, good people on both sides. Or, rather, there were individual aristocrats, merchants, and laborers choosing different sides in these prerevolutionary moments. No civil war takes place between classes; coalitions of many kinds square off against one another.

In part, that’s because there’s no straightforward way of defining our “interests.” It’s in the interest of Silicon Valley entrepreneurs to have big tax cuts; in the longer term, it’s also in their interest to have honest rule-of-law government that isn’t in thrall to guilds or patrons—to be able to float new ideas without paying baksheesh to politicians or having to worry about falling out of sixth-floor windows. “Interests” fail as an explanatory principle.

Does talk of values and ideas get us closer? A central story of American public life during the past three or four decades is (as this writer has noted) that liberals have wanted political victories while reliably securing only cultural victories, even as conservatives, wanting cultural victories, get only political ones. Right-wing Presidents and legislatures are elected, even as one barrier after another has fallen on the traditionalist front of manners and mores. Consider the widespread acceptance of same-sex marriage. A social transformation once so seemingly untenable that even Barack Obama said he was against it, in his first campaign for President, became an uncontroversial rite within scarcely more than a decade.

Right-wing political power has, over the past half century, turned out to have almost no ability to stave off progressive social change: Nixon took the White House in a landslide while Norman Lear took the airwaves in a ratings sweep. And so a kind of permanent paralysis has set in. The right has kept electing politicians who’ve said, “Enough! No more ‘Anything goes’!”—and anything has kept going. No matter how many right-wing politicians came to power, no matter how many right-wing judges were appointed, conservatives decided that the entire culture was rigged against them.

On the left, the failure of cultural power to produce political change tends to lead to a doubling down on the cultural side, so that wholesome college campuses can seem the last redoubt of Red Guard attitudes, though not, to be sure, of Red Guard authority. On the right, the failure of political power to produce cultural change tends to lead to a doubling down on the political side in a way that turns politics into cultural theatre. Having lost the actual stages, conservatives yearn to enact a show in which their adversaries are rendered humiliated and powerless, just as they have felt humiliated and powerless. When an intolerable contradiction is allowed to exist for long enough, it produces a Trump.

As much as television was the essential medium of a dozen bygone Presidential campaigns (not to mention the medium that made Trump a star), the podcast has become the essential medium of this one. For people under forty, the form—typically long-winded and shapeless—is as tangibly present as Walter Cronkite’s tightly scripted half-hour news show was fifty years ago, though the D.I.Y. nature of most podcasts, and the premium on host-read advertisements, makes for abrupt tonal changes as startling as those of the highway billboards.

On the enormously popular, liberal-minded “Pod Save America,” for instance, the hosts make no secret of their belief that the election is a test, as severe as any since the Civil War, of whether a government so conceived can long endure. Then they switch cheerfully to reading ads for Tommy John underwear (“with the supportive pouch”), for herbal hangover remedies, and for an app that promises to cancel all your excess streaming subscriptions, a peculiarly niche obsession (“I accidentally paid for Showtime twice!” “That’s bad!”). George Conway, the former Republican (and White House husband) turned leading anti-Trumper, states bleakly on his podcast for the Bulwark, the news-and-opinion site, that Trump’s whole purpose is to avoid imprisonment, a motivation that would disgrace the leader of any Third World country. Then he immediately leaps into offering—like an old-fashioned a.m.-radio host pushing Chock Full o’Nuts—testimonials for HexClad cookware, with charming self-deprecation about his own kitchen skills. How serious can the crisis be if cookware and boxers cohabit so cozily with the apocalypse?

And then there’s the galvanic space of social media. In the nineteen-seventies and eighties, we were told, by everyone from Jean Baudrillard to Daniel Boorstin, that television had reduced us to numbed observers of events no longer within our control. We had become spectators instead of citizens. In contrast, the arena of social media is that of action and engagement—and not merely engagement but enragement, with algorithms acting out addictively on tiny tablets. The aura of the Internet age is energized, passionate, and, above all, angry. The algorithms dictate regular mortar rounds of text messages that seem to come not from an eager politician but from an infuriated lover, in the manner of Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction”: “Are you ignoring us?” “We’ve reached out to you PERSONALLY!” “This is the sixth time we’ve asked you!” At one level, we know they’re entirely impersonal, while, at another, we know that politicians wouldn’t do this unless it worked, and it works because, at still another level, we are incapable of knowing what we know; it doesn’t feel entirely impersonal. You can doomscroll your way to your doom. The democratic theorists of old longed for an activated citizenry; somehow they failed to recognize how easily citizens could be activated to oppose deliberative democracy.

If the cultural advantages of liberalism have given it a more pointed politics in places where politics lacks worldly consequences, its real-world politics can seem curiously blunted. Kamala Harris, like Joe Biden before her, is an utterly normal workaday politician of the kind we used to find in any functioning democracy—bending right, bending left, placating here and postponing confrontation there, glaring here and, yes, laughing there. Demographics aside, there is nothing exceptional about Harris, which is her virtue. Yet we live in exceptional times, and liberal proceduralists and institutionalists are so committed to procedures and institutions—to laws and their reasonable interpretation, to norms and their continuation—that they can be slow to grasp that the world around them has changed.

One can only imagine the fulminations that would have ensued in 2020 had the anti-democratic injustice of the Electoral College—which effectively amplifies the political power of rural areas at the expense of the country’s richest and most productive areas—tilted in the other direction. Indeed, before the 2000 election, when it appeared as if it might, Karl Rove and the George W. Bush campaign had a plan in place to challenge the results with a “grassroots” movement designed to short-circuit the Electoral College and make the popular-vote winner prevail. No Democrat even suggests such a thing now.

It’s almost as painful to see the impunity with which Supreme Court Justices have torched their institution’s legitimacy. One Justice has the upside-down flag of the insurrectionists flying on his property; another, married to a professional election denialist, enjoys undeclared largesse from a plutocrat. There is, apparently, little to be done, nor even any familiar language of protest to draw on. Prepared by experience to believe in institutions, mainstream liberals believe in their belief even as the institutions are degraded in front of their eyes.

In one respect, the space of politics in 2024 is transoceanic. The forms of Trumpism are mirrored in other countries. In the U.K., a similar wave engendered the catastrophe of Brexit; in France, it has brought an equally extreme right-wing party to the brink, though not to the seat, of power; in Italy, it elevated Matteo Salvini to national prominence and made Giorgia Meloni Prime Minister. In Sweden, an extreme-right group is claiming voters in numbers no one would ever have thought possible, while Canadian conservatives have taken a sharp turn toward the far right.

What all these currents have in common is an obsessive fear of immigration. Fear of the other still seems to be the primary mover of collective emotion. Even when it is utterly self-destructive—as in Britain, where the xenophobia of Brexit cut the U.K. off from traditional allies while increasing immigration from the Global South—the apprehension that “we” are being flooded by frightening foreigners works its malign magic.

It’s an old but persistent delusion that far-right nationalism is not rooted in the emotional needs of far-right nationalists but arises, instead, from the injustices of neoliberalism. And so many on the left insist that all those Trump voters are really Bernie Sanders voters who just haven’t had their consciousness raised yet. In fact, a similar constellation of populist figures has emerged, sharing platforms, plans, and ideologies, in countries where neoliberalism made little impact, and where a strong system of social welfare remains in place. If a broadened welfare state—national health insurance, stronger unions, higher minimum wages, and the rest—would cure the plague in the U.S., one would expect that countries with resilient welfare states would be immune from it. They are not.

Though Trump can be situated in a transoceanic space of populism, he isn’t a mere symptom of global trends: he is a singularly dangerous character, and the product of a specific cultural milieu. To be sure, much of New York has always been hostile to him, and eager to disown him; in a 1984 profile of him in GQ, Graydon Carter made the point that Trump was the only New Yorker who ever referred to Sixth Avenue as the “Avenue of the Americas.” Yet we’re part of Trump’s identity, as was made clear by his recent rally on Long Island—pointless as a matter of swing-state campaigning, but central to his self-definition. His belligerence could come directly from the two New York tabloid heroes of his formative years in the city: John Gotti, the gangster who led the Gambino crime family, and George Steinbrenner, the owner of the Yankees. When Trump came of age, Gotti was all over the front page of the tabloids, as “the Teflon Don,” and Steinbrenner was all over the back sports pages, as “the Boss.”

Steinbrenner was legendary for his middle-of-the-night phone calls, for his temper and combativeness. Like Trump, who theatricalized the activity, he had a reputation for ruthlessly firing people. (Gotti had his own way of doing that.) Steinbrenner was famous for having no loyalty to anyone. He mocked the very players he had acquired and created an atmosphere of absolute chaos. It used to be said that Steinbrenner reduced the once proud Yankees baseball culture to that of professional wrestling, and that arena is another Trumpian space. Pro wrestling is all about having contests that aren’t really contested—that are known to be “rigged,” to use a Trumpian word—and yet evoke genuine emotion in their audience.

At the same time, Trump has mastered the gangster’s technique of accusing others of crimes he has committed. The agents listening to the Gotti wiretap were mystified when he claimed innocence of the just-committed murder of Big Paul Castellano, conjecturing, in apparent seclusion with his soldiers, about who else might have done it: “Whoever killed this cocksucker, probably the cops killed this Paul.” Denying having someone whacked even in the presence of those who were with you when you whacked him was a capo’s signature move.

Marrying the American paranoid style to the more recent cult of the image, Trump can draw on the manner of the tabloid star and show that his is a game, a show, not to be taken quite seriously while still being serious in actually inciting violent insurrections and planning to expel millions of helpless immigrants. Self-defined as a showman, he can say anything and simultaneously drain it of content, just as Gotti, knowing that he had killed Castellano, thought it credible to deny it—not within his conscience, which did not exist, but within an imaginary courtroom. Trump evidently learned that, in the realm of national politics, you could push the boundaries of publicity and tabloid invective far further than they had ever been pushed.

Trump’s ability to be both joking and severe at the same time is what gives him his power and his immunity. This power extends even to something as unprecedented as the assault on the U.S. Capitol. Trump demanded violence (“If you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore”) but stuck in three words, “peacefully and patriotically,” that, however hollow, were meant to immunize him, Gotti-style. They were, so to speak, meant for the cops on the wiretap. Trump’s resilience is not, as we would like to tell our children about resilience, a function of his character. It’s a function of his not having one.

Just as Trump’s support cuts across the usual divisions, so, too, does a divide among his opponents—between the maximizers, who think that Trump is a unique threat to liberal democracy, and the minimizers, who think that he is merely the kind of clown a democracy is bound to throw up from time to time. The minimizers (who can be found among both Marxist Jacobin contributors and Never Trump National Review conservatives) will say that Trump has crossed the wires of culture and politics in a way that opportunistically responds to the previous paralysis, but that this merely places him in an American tradition. Democracy depends on the idea that the socially unacceptable might become acceptable. Andrew Jackson campaigned on similar themes with a similar manner—and was every bit as ignorant and every bit as unaware as Trump. (And his campaigns of slaughter against Indigenous people really were genocidal.) Trump’s politics may be ugly, foolish, and vain, but ours is often an ugly, undereducated, and vain country. Democracy is meant to be a mirror; it shows what it shows.

Indeed, America’s recent history has shown that politics is a trailing indicator of cultural change, and that one generation’s most vulgar entertainment becomes the next generation’s accepted style of political argument. David S. Reynolds, in his biography of Lincoln, reflects on how the new urban love of weird spectacle in the mid-nineteenth century was something Lincoln welcomed. P. T. Barnum’s genius lay in taking circus grotesques and making them exemplary Americans: the tiny General Tom Thumb was a hero, not a freak. Lincoln saw that it cost him nothing to be an American spectacle in a climate of sensation; he even hosted a reception at the White House for Tom Thumb and his wife—as much a violation of the decorum of the Founding Fathers as Trump’s investment in Hulk Hogan at the Republican Convention. Lincoln understood the Barnum side of American life, just as Trump understands its W.W.E. side.

And so, the minimizers say, taking Trump seriously as a threat to democracy in America is like taking Roman Reigns seriously as a threat to fair play in sports. Trump is an entertainer. The only thing he really wants are ratings. When opposing abortion was necessary to his electoral coalition, he opposed it—but then, when that was creating ratings trouble in other households, he sent signals that he wasn’t exactly opposed to it. When Project 2025, which he vaguely set in motion and claims never to have read, threatened his ratings, he repudiated it. The one continuity is his thirst for popularity, which is, in a sense, our own. He rows furiously away from any threatening waterfall back to the center of the river—including on Obamacare. And, the minimizers say, in the end, he did leave the White House peacefully, if gracelessly.

In any case, the panic is hardly unique to Trump. Reagan, too, was vilified and feared in his day, seen as the reductio ad absurdum of the culture of the image, an automaton projecting his controllers’ authoritarian impulses. Nixon was the subject of a savage satire by Philip Roth that ended with him running against the Devil for the Presidency of Hell. The minimizers tell us that liberals overreact in real time, write revisionist history when it’s over, and never see the difference between their stories.

The maximizers regard the minimizers’ case as wishful thinking buoyed up by surreptitious resentments, a refusal to concede anything to those we hate even if it means accepting someone we despise. Maximizers who call Trump a fascist are dismissed by the minimizers as either engaging in name-calling or forcing a facile parallel. Yet the parallel isn’t meant to be historically absolute; it is meant to be, as it were, oncologically acute. A freckle is not the same as a melanoma; nor is a Stage I melanoma the same as the Stage IV kind. But a skilled reader of lesions can sense which is which and predict the potential course if untreated. Trumpism is a cancerous phenomenon. Treated with surgery once, it now threatens to come back in a more aggressive form, subject neither to the radiation of “guardrails” nor to the chemo of “constraints.” It may well rage out of control and kill its host.

And so the maximalist case is made up not of alarmist fantasies, then, but of dulled diagnostic fact, duly registered. Think hard about the probable consequences of a second Trump Administration—about the things he has promised to do and can do, the things that the hard-core group of rancidly discontented figures (as usual with authoritarians, more committed than he is to an ideology) who surround him wants him to do and can do. Having lost the popular vote, as he surely will, he will not speak up to reconcile “all Americans.” He will insist that he won the popular vote, and by a landslide. He will pardon and then celebrate the January 6th insurrectionists, and thereby guarantee the existence of a paramilitary organization that’s capable of committing violence on his behalf without fear of consequences. He will, with an obedient Attorney General, begin prosecuting his political opponents; he was largely unsuccessful in his previous attempt only because the heads of two U.S. Attorneys’ offices, who are no longer there, refused to coöperate. When he begins to pressure CNN and ABC, and they, with all the vulnerabilities of large corporations, bend to his will, telling themselves that his is now the will of the people, what will we do to fend off the slow degradation of open debate?

Trump will certainly abandon Ukraine to Vladimir Putin and realign this country with dictatorships and against NATO and the democratic alliance of Europe. Above all, the spirit of vengeful reprisal is the totality of his beliefs—very much like the fascists of the twentieth century in being a man and a movement without any positive doctrine except revenge against his imagined enemies. And against this: What? Who? The spirit of resistance may prove too frail, and too exhausted, to rise again to the contest. Who can have confidence that a democracy could endure such a figure in absolute control and survive? An oncologist who, in the face of this much evidence, shrugged and proposed watchful waiting as the best therapy would not be an optimist. He would be guilty of gross malpractice. One of those personal-injury lawyers on the billboards would sue him, and win.

What any plausible explanation must confront is the fact that Trump is a distinctively vile human being and a spectacularly malignant political actor. In fables and fiction, in every Disney cartoon and Batman movie, we have no trouble recognizing and understanding the villains. They are embittered, canny, ludicrous in some ways and shrewd in others, their lives governed by envy and resentment, often rooted in the acts of people who’ve slighted them. (“They’ll never laugh at me again!”) They nonetheless have considerable charm and the ability to attract a cult following. This is Ursula, Hades, Scar—to go no further than the Disney canon. Extend it, if that seems too childlike, to the realms of Edmund in “King Lear” and Richard III: smart people, all, almost lovable in their self-recognition of their deviousness, but not people we ever want to see in power, for in power their imaginations become unimaginably deadly. Villains in fables are rarely grounded in any cause larger than their own grievances—they hate Snow White for being beautiful, resent Hercules for being strong and virtuous. Bane is blowing up Gotham because he feels misused, not because he truly has a better city in mind.

Trump is a villain. He would be a cartoon villain, if only this were a cartoon. Every time you try to give him a break—to grasp his charisma, historicize his ascent, sympathize with his admirers—the sinister truth asserts itself and can’t be squashed down. He will tell another lie so preposterous, or malign another shared decency so absolutely, or threaten violence so plausibly, or just engage in behavior so unhinged and hate-filled that you’ll recoil and rebound to your original terror at his return to power. One outrage succeeds another until we become exhausted and have to work hard even to remember the outrages of a few weeks past: the helicopter ride that never happened (but whose storytelling purpose was to demean Kamala Harris as a woman), or the cemetery visit that ended in a grotesque thumbs-up by a graveside (and whose symbolic purpose was to cynically enlist grieving parents on behalf of his contempt). No matter how deranged his behavior is, though, it does not seem to alter his good fortune.

Villainy inheres in individuals. There is certainly a far-right political space alive in the developed world, but none of its inhabitants—not Marine Le Pen or Giorgia Meloni or even Viktor Orbán—are remotely as reckless or as crazy as Trump. Our self-soothing habit of imagining that what has not yet happened cannot happen is the space in which Trump lives, just as comically deranged as he seems and still more dangerous than we know.

Nothing is ever entirely new, and the space between actual events and their disassociated representation is part of modernity. We live in that disassociated space. Generations of cultural critics have warned that we are lost in a labyrinth and cannot tell real things from illusion. Yet the familiar passage from peril to parody now happens almost simultaneously. Events remain piercingly actual and threatening in their effects on real people, while also being duplicated in a fictive system that shows and spoofs them at the same time. One side of the highway is all cancer; the other side all crazy. Their confoundment is our confusion.

It is telling that the most successful entertainments of our age are the dark comic-book movies—the Batman films and the X-Men and the Avengers and the rest of those cinematic universes. This cultural leviathan was launched by the discovery that these ridiculous comic-book figures, generations old, could now land only if treated seriously, with sombre backstories and true stakes. Our heroes tend to dullness; our villains, garishly painted monsters from the id, are the ones who fuel the franchise.

During the debate last month in Philadelphia, as Trump’s madness rose to a peak of raging lunacy—“They’re eating the dogs”; “He hates her!”—ABC, in its commercial breaks, cut to ads for “Joker: Folie à Deux,” the new Joaquin Phoenix movie, in which the crazed villain swirls and grins. It is a Gotham gone mad, and a Gotham, against all the settled rules of fable-making, without a Batman to come to the rescue. Shuttling between the comic-book villain and the grimacing, red-faced, and unhinged man who may be reëlected President in a few weeks, one struggled to distinguish our culture’s most extravagant imagination of derangement from the real thing. The space is that strange, and the stakes that high. ♦

46 notes · View notes

lady-phasma · 4 months ago

Text

Every time I see a tag that Interview with the Vampire or any of its cast and crew should be nominated for or receive an Emmy award I get frustrated with AMC. They made themselves ineligible for the current round of Emmy nominations. They could be eligible for next year, but that's a long delay for a season that ends June 30.

From the 76th Emmy Awards, Rules & Proceedures, link to PDF:

Eligibility period: June 1, 2023 - May 31, 2024.

The required number of episodes from a series must premiere nationally by May 31 to be eligible in the current Emmy competition. (Six episodes are required for series in animation, comedy, drama, variety, short form, and reality categories. Three episodes are required for documentary series and hosted nonfiction series.)

Which is incredibly disappointing when such wonderful performances, writing, music, sets, and costumes were delivered in season two.

#interview with the vampire #emmy awards #amc iwtv #amc interview with the vampire #iwtv #jacob anderson #sam reid #assad zaman #delainey hayles #eric bogosian #iwtv season 2

46 notes · View notes

miraculouslbcnreactions · 5 months ago

Note

Curious, but do you know of anything Marinette is bad at? I didn't realize this until before, but Marinette always seems to be presented as amazing at everything. Like, I can get baking and designing, since they're things she's had personal experience in, but everything else? She's either super amazing or she needed five minutes of instruction and she's incredible.

Gaming? Absolute pro. Art? Amazing. Fencing? Just a little help from Adrien, and she's so good. So far, the skills she's presented to be absolutely amazing at: gaming, fencing, art, fashion, costume design (surprise surprise, fashion and costume design are two different avenues), baking, DIY, mechanical engineering (Miracle box hiding place and snapping diary box), fighting, leadership, decision-making, Guardianship, school (somehow straight-A student despite her tardiness and Ladybug issues).

And that's all I can get off the top of my head. I'm scared that there might be more. The only things I can think of that she's bad at is ice skating (which feels like a plot device for the Frozer episode, since she adapted so quickly to ice-skating as Icebug) and talking to Adrien.

I have a character (non-MLB) with the kind of genius that lets her master anything if she's seen it two or three times, but that genius has limitations itself that later compels her to actually think and work hard to master said subject. But Marinette is never even implied to be similiar to this, and everything she's good at is just passed off as "Amazing Marinette" and then left alone.

What do you think? If there's any other examples of things she's bad at, clumsiness nonwithstanding, please tell me, because this thought is driving me bonkers.

Nothing comes to mind, though I will say that Marinette wasn't a very good fencer. Then again, the show is actually laughably bad at portraying fencing, so I guess we just have to take Adrien's word for it that she was good. (I fenced for several years. May even have my old meddles somewhere as proof, though I doubt it.)

This isn't unique to Marinette, though. Most of the teen characters are absurdly talented. Kitty Section was so cool XY stole their music and their look. Alya runs a blog that's so successful that she was interviewed on national TV (end of PrimeQueen). Nino got to be on that TV competition in Simon Says. Max has tech in a literal space ship. The list goes on and on. Marinette just has more than most because she's the main character.

This isn't necessarily a flaw. It's normal for kids shows to have kid/teen characters who are super cool and talented because the goal is to inspire real kids to try things. The only reason it feels like a flaw in Miraculous is that this type of super-cool can-do-anything character is usually reserved for low-stakes episodic shows. Serialized shows (aka, shows with an overarching plot) will still have kid and teen characters who do the things adults usually do because that's what the target audience wants to see, but these kid and teen character will be a lot more nuanced and flawed. They're allowed to fail because their stories can take multiple episodes to resolve whereas characters in episodic shows have to have everything figured out and wrapped up in 20 minutes, allowing for way less nuance to their characters.

Because Miraculous is trying to be both an episodic and a serialized show, you get a lot of awkward characterization and writing. Sitcom drama with prestige TV stakes. We want Miraculous' cast to feel like they belong in a serialized drama because Miraculous has a serialized plot, but the individual episodes must stand alone, so the characters can't have the depth they need. It's messy, ugly writing.

#ml writing critical #ml writing salt

38 notes · View notes

coralcatsea · 8 months ago

Note

what do alfred and arthur have in common? I think Alfred is more like Francis

-They're silly. Alfred more obviously so, but Arthur is as well. They both put on cat ears to 'prank' Japan and have random little races with each other just because. Hima himself said he can't decide if Arthur is a serious person or not.

-They're animal lovers. Arthur adopted a cat, named him Larry, and spoiled him. Alfred is literally depicted hugging a bunch of animals (including a gator) that the presidents had as pets. And he has a whale.

-Both grew up mainly alone. Arthur spent a lot of his childhood alone, so he assumes it's normal and tells Alfred he will be fine by himself, too. Arthur ends up away taking care of his own nation duties most of the time, and Alfred is shown just kind of doing things by himself.

-They have weird taste in food. Arthur's is either bland or burnt (though he's gotten better) while Alfred has all those neon cakes. Arthur also loves McDonald's and that cheesy American food he tried in the courtroom strips. They both love sweets as well.

-They like to tease. Arthur told Alfred with a big smirk that he might be a snakeman for Halloween, and Alfred is scared of snakes. They also lightheartedly teased each other over the phone about their political problems. Once when they were camping/spying at night, Alfred tried to tease Arthur about how the atmosphere felt like 'bloodthirsty monsters' were about to come out of nowhere. Arthur said if he were a monster, he'd avoid Alfred, and Alfred winked and said, "Well, it can get pretty dangerous around me!"

-They both like seeing each other in questionable/skimpy outfits, such as the Robin costume, a Rio Carnivale outfit, and Alfred's April Fool's outfit.

-They're both competitive. There's the whole Halloween competition they always have, and then there was that random race that I mentioned earlier.

-They're interested in old coins, as depicted in that strip about Arthur showing Alfred an old coin he found.

-They have a hard time being honest, and hide their vulnerability since they're sensitive to rejection. Alfred is tentative to admit how much Arthur means to him, like when Arthur was dying, or when he rejected Arthur's offer of friendship – despite very obviously wanting to be his friend given how much he goes out of his way to find excuses to hang out. In turn, Alfred's rejections make Arthur put up walls and come up with excuses of his own when he does things for Alfred, such as giving him food.

-They like showing off/impressing the other. Again, the coin Arthur excitedly showed Alfred. There were multiple times Alfred showed off during the Industrial Revolution, and then when Arthur was giving Alfred a tour of his country, he started texting his magical friends to come over the second Alfred expressed interest in wanting to see something fantastical.

-They're prideful. This goes along with the two points made above.

-The attention they give each other is mutual. Here's a whole post dedicated to the topic.

-Both love Halloween and scary things. They try to scare each other, Arthur has a tendency to sing creepy songs and likes ghost stories, and Alfred likes watching scary films and playing scary games even if they freak him out.

-Both love steampunk. Arthur got really excited when he found out Alfred shared this interest.

-They both have unusual friends. Tony, the whale, Flying Mint Bunny, and other magical creatures.

-They both like fantasy. Arthur watches fantasy movies and Alfred mentioned wanting to see fantastical things on his tour of England.

-They both like romanticism. Arthur is said to become a romanticist before he goes to bed and Alfred expressed an interest in romanticism on his tour of England.

-They both have experience as isolated countries. Arthur has his "Splendid Isolation" and the U.S. has spent a lot of time being isolationist as well.

-They're both intelligent. Arthur is described as sharp-witted and creative in his bio. Alfred is also creative, interested in archaeology, and is actually capable of reading the atmosphere, he just chooses whether or not to do so based on the situation.

-They value each other's opinions. England takes America's advice on how to improve his products, and America prompts England to give his plan a critique despite being sensitive to criticism. Also, Alfred wouldn't be sensitive to Arthur's criticism if he didn't care about his opinion.

-They like to please each other. Arthur often gives Alfred food, like ice cream and chocolate bars. In Hetalia Fantasia, Alfred planned and created an entire dungeon for months, only invited Arthur, and offered the prize of raising his stats extremely high if he won.

#hetalia #hws #hws england #hws america #ukus #answered asks #hetalia canon #hetalia manga #aph america #aph england #aph #usuk #usukus

68 notes · View notes

quakinqueer · 8 months ago

Text

Piggybacking directly off my last post, I'd now like to present my pitch for summer games 2024. Ladies, gentlemen, and nonbinary friends I present to you:

SMOSH SUMMER GAMES: RENAISSANCE

That's right, you heard me. Medieval/Ren faire theme. Think of the games, think of the costumes, think of the TRAILER. I've seen other people mention this as a potential theme but I'd like to present my own reasoning/ideas:

I've heard multiple people, especially current cast, refer to this current Era as a Renaissance/golden age, so it would frankly be perfect, especially considering it'd be the first in years to feature Anthony.

I just think all the cast would kill it at a lot of the challenges considering a lot of them visit Ren faires pretty often, so there'd really be some serious competition between them all, and if they did dress up for it they'd all look amazing. (Am I biased because I'm currently fixating hard on Damien, the loml, and think he, in particular, would THRIVE with this theme? Yes, yes I am)

We have no way of knowing if a trailer as awesome as the one for Wild West is within their current budget, but presuming for a moment that it is, THINK ABOUT IT! Just imagine the costumes and outfits, maybe a swordfight or two. I'm seeing either a tavern or royal dinner, Chanse and Angela as bards performing, Shayne and Amanda as court jesters, Damien and Trevor as an adventurer and his apprentice, Tommy as a tavern bartender/innkeeper with Spencer as that one regular who never leaves him alone, Ian and Anthony as two kings whose nations (teams) are at war. Preferably directed by Courtney, and maybe also Damien.

#smosh #smoshblr #smosh games #smosh pit #smosh summer games #damien haas #ian hecox #anthony padilla #shayne topp #courtney miller #angela giarratana #chanse mccrary #amanda lehan canto #arasha lalani #tommy bowe #spencer agnew

55 notes · View notes

themakeupbrush · 2 years ago

Video

tumblr

Details from the Miss Universe Vietnam 2022 National Costume: CHIẾU CÀ MAU

Inspired by the beauty of culture and people in the mat weaving village, "Chiếu Cà Mau” carries the story of children. peaceful, simple people in the southernmost part of the country. The new scented mats have reflected the colors of luck and happiness, bringing hope to light up ambitions for a bright future.

The simple, idyllic mat has yet been attached to so many people, through many generations and still exists until today. And now, from a traditional handicraft village of Vietnam, "Chiếu Cà Mau" has been transformed into a masterpiece of national costume representing Vietnam at the Miss Universe arena.

As the excellent work that won the first prize of the National Custome Contest, "Chiếu Cà Mau” by designer Nguyễn Quốc Việt officially accompanies Miss Ngoc Chau to the Miss Universe arena.

#miss universe #miss universe vietnam #vietnam #miss universe 2022 #pageant #national costume #national costume contest #i actually posted the full costume before as part of the national level competition #the official portrait is...weird and not a great representation of the costume so I thought this video was cooler

36 notes · View notes

nonasuch · 2 years ago

Text

The 2022 Miss Universe pageant was last night!

Which means: the National Costumes are here.

Yes, there is video. It’s worth watching if you want to see how some of these look in motion, but I’m warning you in advance that the emcees keep doing these shitty little rhyming couplets, and they will make you want to strangle them with one of the many available voluminous gown trains. So I’m suffering on your behalf, and liveblogging.

First up: Albania.

Sparkly flag-inspired bodysuit with train is the voting “present” of the Miss Universe National Costume Competition.

Angola. She did a fun dance on her way to center stage, which would probably not have been possible in her original costume, which was “tree-inspired” and too big to ship to New Orleans.

Argentina. This is where the video does come in handy, because without it I would not be able to award her First Contestant To Visibly Struggle Under The Weight Of Her Outfit. It’s a waterfall. The rainbow crotch area was certainly a design choice.

Armenia. I would like to see what’s going on with the bodice behind the... shield thing? but she never put it down.

Also, it turns out that when one contestant has a costume dedicated to solemn remembrance of the Armenian genocide, and the contestant immediately after her has a costume that’s about beach parties, there is kind of an uncomfortably abrupt tonal shift that happens onstage.

Aruba. Like I said: weird tonal shift! She did a little shimmy dance at Miss Armenia as they passed each other and it was clearly awkward for both of them. This is made of recycled materials leftover from Carnival, which is cool? I guess?

Australia. This is a prom dress. Boo.

Bahrain. A rare pants look! There’s a lot of detail in the headdress and bodice that’s kind of getting lost, but it looks cool in motion. Also the theme is apparently “Bahrain is rich as fuck,” so congrats I guess?

Belgium. Okay so the theme of this costume, my hand to g-d, is “the window on the International Space Station that Belgium built.” Why does this requires a shit-ton of leftover Christmas tinsel and some very awkward-to-wear angel wings? I do not know.

Belize. This is fun! It’s a good “lesser-known Batman villainess” kind of look. Like if Ivy and Catwoman co-mentored someone. The actual theme is “the world’s only jaguar reserve, which is in Belize,” but I think it’s also kind of implying that she might be a were-jaguar. Which, again, is fun!

Bhutan. This goes in the “just an actual regional/folk costume” category, which is also kind of like voting Present, but it looks like the fabrics are nice.

Bolivia. She has an entire Andean condor on her head so I’m already on board. This photo only shows the cloak, which is covered in silver spangles in honor of Bolivia’s silver mines, and is also why her condor is perched on a miner’s helmet. The dress underneath is entirely made of swags of sparkly gold beads, so the visual effect is actually pretty nice in motion.

Brazil. The construction details on this are actually quite lovely! Lots of intricate beading and rhinestone work. Unfortunately that doesn’t convey well at any distance, and also that white fin peplum thing flaps around really awkwardly when she walks. Oh, wait, she can flip it up to be a clamshell thing behind her head!

That looks much better.

British Virgin Islands. First giant flower of the year!

Bulgaria. Apparently this is made of neoprene? So with that and the rainbow stripes, the effect ends up being kind of “what if Midsommar, but at a rave.”

Cambodia. It feels weird to say “yep, standard Miss Universe warrior goddess costume” but basically that’s what this is. I do like the green-and-gold color palette, though.

Cameroon. “The baskets represent the nation’s agricultural movement.” Okay! I like how it’s giving “Valkyrie, but make it Global South,” though I’m not sure three entire country-shaped cutouts were necessary.

Canada. Another fine Miss Universe tradition: contestant who knows how to dance en pointe so she’s going to goddamn wear a costume that goes with pointe shoes, Or Else. Some nice beadwork! I would let her be the third, secret red swan in Swan Lake if that were a thing.

Cayman Islands. Sexy Blue Iguana is a fun concept! There’s a tail in back of the cape.

Chile. Sexy Atacama Desert is kind of abstract, as these things go, but I respect her choice to wear something she could walk in.

China. Hilariously, the announcer was like “This look... does not match the bio we were given, so I’m gonna wing it!” The fabrics are nice -- the satin drapes and moves well -- but the embellishments are kind of meh compared to some of the Miss China looks I’ve seen.

Colombia. This is a legit great Sexy Phoenix, but I need you all to know that her crown got turned a little sideways while she walked to the stage and she clearly knew it and just as clearly could do nothing about it, and I feel bad for laughing but it was funny.

Costa Rica. Sexy hummingbird! I think I’ve identified a recurring theme for this year. Corset and wings are made of recycled materials, which is nice, and they look well-made -- a lot of wing-based costumes tend to flop around or go crooked in motion, but not these.

Croatia. Oh, honey. This has big “my mom helped me make this the night before it was due” energy, unfortunately.

Curacao. “Meet the Fisherman’s Wife, a woman with a key role in Curacao’s fishing industry.” Okay? Honestly you could have left off the basket and said “this costume represents the beautiful marine life of Curacao” and I would have been like “yep, checks out” but now I have many follow-up questions.

Czech Republic. This is meant to be a Mucha-inspired look but uh. Mostly it’s just. beige. I’m starting to feel like all the other Slavic countries saw advance photos of Miss Ukraine and were like “let’s just phone it in this year, girls, there’s no point.”

Dominican Republic. “This costume recognizes the importance of birds in Dominican culture.” They did make it with silk feathers, which I appreciate, because it would have been very weird to use real ones with that mission statement. Also I like her headdress, and the giant feather fans are a good way to nod in the direction of wings without the hassle of actually wearing wings.

Ecuador. This looks good in motion! She did some dancing onstage that worked well, and there’s a great sculpted Inca head scowling on the back of her headdress. This is still only a few notches above voting Present, though.

El Salvador. “History of Currency,” which is definitely a concept! The Bitcoin wizard staff is sure something.

Equatorial Guinea. A perfectly nice entry in the “actual regional costume” category, but on the video I was like “oh, yikes, her headdress is really wobbly” and then it FELL OFF and I felt so bad for her.

Finland. “Spirit of the Forest”? Fuck off, that’s a prom dress. Boo.

I’m going to pause here so this readmore doesn’t get completely out of control. Shit, there are 50 more of these? Well, I have only myself to blame.

#miss universe #miss universe national costume

2K notes · View notes

bagopucks · 2 years ago

Text

J. Hughes - Sally Forth [Peter McPoland]

✄————————————

Jack Hughes x Fem!dancer!reader

Requested✨

Word count: 3.7k

Warning(s): None

I didn’t state ‘Dance Moms’ specifically, but I also didn’t specify any studio or tv show for that matter. So it’s up for interpretation! The title is also the song I had in mind for the reader’s performance, but that is also up for each person’s creative interpretation.

—————————————

“Be ready ladies! I’m serious!” The shrill voice of our dance instructor had myself and the other girls tensing in our seats. This had to be perfect. I had to be perfect.

What the internet says is no lie, reality tv is not for children. I know that, but I have never once regretted experiencing all seven seasons of this show, and now finishing eight. The tv aspect is not what worries me. It’s Nationals. I got the soloist spot in my studio. Some girls cheered me on, others did not. I learned who were my real friends and who weren’t over the years. It was the same with the moms. I’ve always had trouble with them. Any adult in your life can be someone you look to for guidance. In this case, I did not enjoy the company or guidance of any mother on the show. The moms were always building someone up and tearing someone down. Often one was done to accomplish the other. Nobody could ever be equal.

Our director, competition, the end of a season. These were all relative constants in my life from a young age. They caused distress and pride. Self esteem issues, and self discovery.

I was never soft. In this industry I learned that a person simply won’t survive if they are too sensitive. But I had a superpower. Mama Hughes always reminded me of that. I was raised across the street from three rambunctious boys. They gave me hell every day of my life. I had a rough exterior and interior because I grew up getting pushed around, hit in the eyes with foam hockey balls, and shoving any brother out of the way when I heard Ellen shout that lunch was ready. Underneath the chaos, it had always been more than that. I would spend hours working on puzzles with Quinn, and watching movies we weren’t supposed to with Jack. A lot of the bonding I did with Luke was more so teasing and ganging up on him with his brothers, but I did offer school advice when he came to me for it. I slept over with those boys for many years, all wrapped up in comforters sprawled out across the floor. I spent many holidays with them as well. Even Hanukkah.

It was not only my grit and rough exterior that kept me afloat, but my good heart and soul that helped me not get lost in the fame and fortune. Ellen often told me that. But when her words didn’t work, I went to Jack.

He was the only person right now I could consistently think of. My mother and Ellen were here. The dads were in charge of the boys. I didn’t know why. How many adults did it take to control the Hughes boys? I could do it grabbing one by the ear, pinching another’s side, and promising the third a cookie.

I’d have a large support group, but Jack was the one I was worried about messing up in front of. People used to make jokes about us being so close, saying that one day we might get married. We used to gag at each other and shoot off empty insults about the opposite sex until we thought we made our points loud and clear.

Jack stopped that childish antic before me.

I stopped it shortly after.

then we ended up together.

“Alright, your costume’s in the bathroom, let me see your makeup.” I turned in my chair to look up at Ellen. My mother had never been particularly great at cosmetics, but Ellen promised she’d be there to make me pop. “You look beautiful.”

I did some of it on my own, but our instructor was tense about young teens doing their own makeup, so Ellen helped with the eyeliner and maskera.

“Go get into your costume while I clean up.” My mom piped up, and I smiled at her before practically sprinting to the bathroom down the hall. My costume was my favorite one by far. A dark green corset top, where one of the straps was covered in pale pastel colored flowers. Connected to it was a cream colored chiffon skirt, the same pastel floral arrangement sewn in strategically to make the buds look like they grew in a curved diagonal up the side. The skirt flowed nicely with my movements when I practiced in it, and the flowers accentuated every twist and turn. I gave myself a once over in the bathroom mirror before the nerves finally dawned on me. The tingly feeling followed me all the way back into the dressing room, my nails digging into my palms. Jack used to hold my hands in school under the desks when I did that. Now I didn’t have Jack with me.

“Oh baby!” My mom gasped, heads of other girls turning in the process. “You look so perfect.” My mom reached her arms out, and I did my best to attempt a side hug.

“Please don’t crush the flowers mom,” I spoke, alarming her and causing her to pull back.

“You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart.” One of the mothers chimed in with what I might dare to call a genuine smile. “Now you just have to dance as perfect as you look.” There it was.

I quickly turned back to Ellen and my mother, my brows furrowed in a silent type of fear I didn’t know how to articulate. After so many years of dance, I still couldn’t voice my nerves properly when I needed to. No doubt because the other girls got torn down for it in the studio.

“You’re going to be so good baby. Come here,” my mom sat down in the chair I previously used in front of my vanity. I walked over and placed my hands in her own.

“You’re gonna do so good. What matters is that you were good enough to make it this far. This right here, is already impressive enough for everybody in this family. Your father and I will never stop bragging about you to everybody we know. Win or lose.” She smiled, and I could see tears forming in her eyes. My own mother made me want to cry on my performance day. “Ellen-“ she sniffed. “Pep talk- I’m gonna cry.”

I turned back to the woman I’d known since the age of seven. She smiled at me, I saw her boys in her. Most of all, I saw so much of Jack in her.

“Motivational pep talk. Ready?” I nodded. “You’re gonna get out there, and show those kids who’s boss. Because in the Hughes house, what do we believe in?”

“Checks, goals, and five holes?” I saw Ellen’s face contort into confusion. She’d have to ask which brother taught me that later.

“No… but close. Hard work takes you far. And dedication. And kid, as cheesy as it is, as long as you have fun, that’s all it takes to be happy with your results.” Ellen’s words made me nod. I drew in a slow breath. “But if you have to check a girl off stage, I won’t hold it against you.” I broke out into a quiet fit of laughter before our moment was interrupted by our instructor informing everybody to step out into the hall. We all did, some girls huddled together while I stood between Ellen and my mom. Ever since I got this solo, I’ve felt alienated. Quinn said they were just jealous. But as a teenager, all you want is to be accepted in a place you feel you belong.

“Ellen!” Jim rounded the corner in a beige suit, looking breathless. “Ellen, you’ve gotta come help me. There’s twenty of them, and they won’t sit in their seats. Luke keeps eating all the skittles- Jack won’t keep his tie on.. and Quinn-“ he looked exasperated, as if Quinn had been the worst of all. Then he paused. “Quinn’s actually fine.. but they’re impossible to handle.” Ellen laughed at her husband’s hardship before turning to give me a quick shoulder squeeze.

“We all believe in you.” She gave me a nod, and I returned it before she walked to her husband.

“Break someone’s leg, eh?” Jimmy’s words earned concerned looks from some of the mothers before the Hughes parents left. Leaving me to wait with my mother.

As the competition started, group by group, one by one, girls went on the stage, and came off. Some beamed with pride, others cried, others looked completely relieved.

“Mom I need to text Jack.” I turned to look at her, distressed. My throat was dry, and I felt like I could barely stand on my own two legs.

“Your phone’s in the dressing room, hun.”

“Please,” I begged. She pursed her lips before retrieving her own phone from her pocket, texting Ellen and telling the blonde woman her middle child was needed.

——————

Out in the auditorium, Ellen’s phone was being passed from boy to boy, until it reached the Hughes brothers on the opposite end of the isle.

Ellie H… Sup?

Jack. I’m really nervous.

Ellie H… No reason. You’ll be fine. You did this in the living room for me like 80 times.

Yeah. But did you point out every little thing that was wrong?

Ellie H… Don’t question yourself. Just go out there, do your dance, celly a little, and lay back for the rest of the night.

Celly a little? I can’t do that on stage.. they’ll take off points.

Ellie H… I don’t know how this thing works. Mom says you look beautiful. I can’t wait to see you :)

Don’t make my nerves worse. But.. yeah I’m excited to see you too. Your dad said you wouldn’t keep your tie on?

Ellie H… Oh it’s on. Mom yelled at me.

Can’t say I’m surprised. I bet you look handsome.

Ellie H… I do. And you’re gonna be fire. 💃

Ellie H… mom says I have to put this away. It’s disrespectful or something. I’ll

———Point of View Switch———

“Jack Rowden!” I could hear my mom trying to shout through whispers, turning my head to look at her as she leaned forward to see me through a row full of guys my age. My team. They were all trying their best not to snicker while the next age group was introduced. I looked back down at the phone to finish my text before Quinn snatched the phone from my hand, bumping the send button in the process.

“Dude!”

“Mom said stop.”

“She needed me.”

“She needed me!” My head whipped to Luke, seated on my other side.

“Shut up Luke. You can’t even get a girlfriend.” Quinn backhanded my stomach- but our fight ceased at the sound of our best friend’s name. My girlfriend’s name.

I couldn’t see her in the dim lights, but I knew her figure when she walked out on stage. I saw the way her skirt flowed behind her as well. She always walked so fast. Like a woman on a mission. When she was little, I used to watch her from across the yard with a box of chalk. She’d step right out the front door and march over to her driveway like she planned on making the most elaborate chalk art known to man. One day I got the courage to actually cross the street to see her. She didn’t like sharing her chalk at first… but that was probably because I used to press so hard I’d break it. She had to show me how to use it right. Always so gentle and elegant with everything.

“She’s set. That’s what they call it in dance when a performer-“

“Quinn, shut up.” I scolded my brother, leaning forward in my seat as my hands gripped my knees.

There was a solid moment where I swear nobody breathed, but it was just me holding the air in my lungs. My girlfriend stopped moving. She was set. She liked to tell me it was a dancer’s face off.

The lights came up in bright pale colors, and the song began. I gripped my knees tighter than ever. Was this what she felt like when she watched my hockey games?

“Oh my god,” Quinn would describe my tone as enamored. I didn’t even know what that word meant. As she moved around the stage, she was breathtaking. I held my breath and gasped with every jump, turn, leap, and roll. She was good. Better than I was at hockey. And even though I’d seen this routine a million times before, it felt like the first time when she was on stage.

“Quinn! Quinny, give me the phone.” I took it from him turning on the camera and holding it up before Luke reached out. “Stop!” I hissed.

“Let me do it so you can watch her,” my younger brother offered, and that’s when I handed the phone over.

I always thought my girlfriend was brilliant every day. Every time I held her, cuddled up on the couch with her. Every time we played board games or watched movies, or studied together. I always thought she was incredible, but I never got to see her really dance. Hockey always got in the way of recitals, and my mom was always worried that me coming around too much might get me roped up into a camera shot. She supported my lovely girl on stage, but I could understand why she didn’t want me or my brothers on tv. Different lives called for different people.

My eyes were trained on her the whole time she floated across the stage. She had grace and emotion in her movements. I could feel the love for what she did, and I swear I could see it in her body language.

“Dude,” Quinn broke the silence. Silence that shouldn’t have been broken, but we didn’t have a clue. Nor did we think it too disrespectful.

“I know.” I answered, my words drawl out as I slowly leaned back, a smile forming on my lips.

“You have to marry her.” Quinn’s eyes flickered from myself back to the stage, resting his hands on the armrests of his chair.

“Can’t if she marries dance first.”

“This is the one time I would ever encourage an affair.”

The woman in front of us turned around to glare, Quinn and I fell silent. Luke was busy giggling at the fact that the audio of whatever video he got, it was going to be good.

———Point Of View Switch———

When the music came to a close, I found myself smiling as bright as the sun. I gave a graceful bow before lifting my head to see an entire isle full of people springing upright. My eyes travelled the expanse of boys to find three brothers near the end in matching navy blue suits. My smile widened. I wanted to scream.

When I was allowed to leave the stage, I did. The second I was concealed by curtains, I went sprinting to hug my mother. Now we had to play the waiting game.

I sat in the dressing room and broke off small pieces of a chocolate bar while the other girls mingled and gossiped about the acts and who they thought was placing where. I tried not to dwell on it, but I did nonetheless. My leg bounced uncontrollably, eyes set on the floor while my mom sat beside me.

“What does this emoji mean?” I turned to look at her phone. She caught sight of the end of mine and Jack’s conversation.

“I don’t know mom.. it’s just a dancer.”

When they began to announce awards, all of the dancers were called to a roped off section of the auditorium to sit. I passed the side where Jim and Ellen sat, and received a fist bump from Jimmy on the way by. I tried not to give Jack any attention, knowing if I did, I’d be even more anxious to go home empty handed in front of him.

As the groups were gone through, and recognitions handed out as well as prizes, I began to tense up.

I was gripping the edge of my seat. Only one person could be in first place of my group.

They announced the third. My heart panicked, but it made me hopeful to be second or first.

They announced the second, and my chest began to tighten while my doubts sank in. My chances narrowed. Slim to none.

The woman on stage announced the first, and all of a sudden, everything wasn’t real any more. I heard my mother screaming her lungs out. I heard Jack’s voice in the back of my head, ‘celly a little.’ What did that even look like for me?

When my emotions caught up with my body, it looked like running in place, bouncing from foot to foot, and shouting at the top of my lungs. Then I bounded out of my isle and up onto the stage. I was presented with a sash and a trophy. Then a pretty silver crown. The woman on stage congratulated me, allowed for a few rounds of applause, and I was sent to sit again. Somebody came by to take my trophy to the back for me. I insisted to keep the crown and the sash.

When the competition was brought to a close, and everyone was thanked for coming, I leapt out of my seat, running to find my parents and the rest of my ‘fans.’ I smoothed down my skirt before reaching my mom, giving her the tightest hug I could before my dad playfully pushed her aside. I heard a voice smack talking my father from behind.

“Come on man, let me see her!” The voice finally pleaded, and my dad let me go, stepping aside to let me at Jack. I bounced into his arms, and he practically swung me from side to side as I shouted in pure joy.

“God you were mesmerizing! I love you so much.” We were only fifteen, but we swore we were in love with one another.

“Thank you for coming Jack,” I breathed a sigh of relief into his shoulder before I felt a force shove his weight into mine, pushing him forward and myself back.

“Let her go, loser. We want some too.” Quinn’s words made Jack reluctantly let me go, and the eldest brother quickly slipped past to wrap his arms around me. The crown on my head slipped, but Quinn was quick to snatch it before it fell.

“I’ll hold onto this, yeah?” The eldest brother offered, making me smile and nod.

“You were awesome. Luke got a video.” Quinn informed me, slowly pulling away.

“Luke got a video?” Ellen was reaching to grab her phone from her youngest.

Instead of hugs, Luke and I exchanged a quick handshake we made up long ago before he smiled at me. “It was pretty okay,” the blonde teased. I ruffled his somewhat styled hair.

I went through with the rest of the group, greeting each of the players with smiles and high fives or fist bumps. By the time I got to the end, I realized Jack had gone around to meet me there, I giggled softly at his eagerness. He had a twinkle in his eyes that made me want to hug him forever in that moment.

We shared another quick embrace, my eyes caught on a camera behind Jack. Ellen’s boys couldn’t escape the screen this time. When Jack pulled away, I gestured for him to take his suit jacket off. For the rest of the time we stood around talking, Jack held his jacket up, concealing us from whatever cameras we spotted.

The end was the sloppy part. Everybody was getting packed up and beginning to leave. The competition had been far from home, but the hotel we were booked to stay in was nice. The hockey team had to be somewhere else, as did the Hughes boys, but Ellen told Jack she could stay with him in her room where I was only one door down that night.

By the time we left the competition building, it was pitch black outside.

“Mom, can I go with Jack?” I asked softly, and she was quick to nod a yes. My dad offered to travel with the hockey team on the bus, so Jim could spend some time with his family after being apart. Quinn and Luke took the middle seats while Jack and I crammed ourselves into the back together. Despite the jovial moods everyone was in, exhaustion was also evident. A few things were said before silence filled the car on the ride to the hotel.

“You did so good.. I was so nervous every time you jumped. You’ve never done that before in the living room.” Jack and I whispered back and forth as we sat, practically sharing the middle seat in the back. We had unbuckled to be closer. Not the safest move, I’ll admit.

“You really did look handsome tonight.” I whispered in return, reaching up to rest my hands on his shoulders.

“I loved your dance outfit.. but I think these sweatpants look better on you.” Jack teased softly as he rested his head atop the seat he leaned half of his body against. Our knees were touching, legs folded up onto the seats to make facing one another as comfortable as possible.

I dropped my head to rest against the top of the seat as well, our eyes never wandering unless to look at the other’s lips. We’ve never kissed before. In the dark, in the back of the car, it felt like our own little world. Jack must have been thinking the same thing I was.

Our heads slowly drew nearer before our lips touched. Nobody reached out to touch the other, still too hesitant to do much else, but the kiss was electric.

After we pulled away, silence followed. Jack smiled at me, and I smiled back. Within minutes, I scooted closer and rested a hand on his knee, sighing to myself and slowly dozing off as Jack began pulling the pins out of my hair and taking the bun out. I was out like a light before the ends of my hair ever met my shoulders.

✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾❀✾

#jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #nhl imagine #jack hughes imagine #nhl x reader #quinn hughes #luke hughes

358 notes · View notes