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ongolecharles · 4 months ago

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DAILY SCRIPTURE READINGS (DSR) 📚 Group, Fri Sept 27th, 2024 ... Friday of the Twenty-fifth Week in Ordinary Time, Year B/Memorial of Saint Vincent de Paul, Priest

Reading 1

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Eccl 3:1-11

There is an appointed time for everything,

and a time for every thing under the heavens.

A time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant.

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

a time to tear down, and a time to build.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them;

a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away.

A time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate;

a time of war, and a time of peace.

What advantage has the worker from his toil?

I have considered the task that God has appointed

for the sons of men to be busied about.

He has made everything appropriate to its time,

and has put the timeless into their hearts,

without man’s ever discovering,

from beginning to end, the work which God has done.

Responsorial Psalm

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Ps 144:1b and 2abc, 3-4

R. (1) Blessed be the Lord, my Rock!

Blessed be the LORD, my rock,

my mercy and my fortress,

my stronghold, my deliverer,

My shield, in whom I trust.

R. Blessed be the Lord, my Rock!

LORD, what is man, that you notice him;

the son of man, that you take thought of him?

Man is like a breath;

his days, like a passing shadow.

R. Blessed be the Lord, my Rock!

Alleluia

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Mk 10:45

R. Alleluia, alleluia.

The Son of Man came to serve

and to give his life as a ransom for many.

R. Alleluia, alleluia.

Gospel

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Lk 9:18-22

Once when Jesus was praying in solitude,

and the disciples were with him,

he asked them, “Who do the crowds say that I am?”

They said in reply, “John the Baptist; others, Elijah;

still others, ‘One of the ancient prophets has arisen.’”

Then he said to them, “But who do you say that I am?”

Peter said in reply, “The Christ of God.”

He rebuked them and directed them not to tell this to anyone.

He said, “The Son of Man must suffer greatly

and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes,

and be killed and on the third day be raised.”

***

FOCUS AND LITURGY OF THE WORD

God’s timing is so incredibly perfect. His touch on each of our lives each and every day is so constant and profound that we typically do not even notice it. Of all the people on earth, I find it beyond comprehension that my God who created everything could be constantly involved in my simple, personal life. I fail miserably in trying to understand how this could be, and yet it is true !

Today’s first Reading from Ecclesiastes comforts me, for I am clearly not alone in the wonder of God’s role in my individual life. Here Solomon points out that literally every single aspect of our lives follows an appointed time, a plan orchestrated by our God. A plan in which there is a specific time for everything that makes up our life. As Solomon began to see the bigger picture, it troubled him as he tried to make sense of life. This is not only surprising, but perhaps shocking. It was obvious that Solomon had a relationship with God his entire life, so how could he become so disillusioned.

This is where it hits close to home for us all today. We easily become disillusioned with our lives. Society around us seems to be spiraling out of control and there always seems to be so much that simply makes no sense. Of course this all points us to the futility of thinking we are in control, but like King Solomon, we easily forget who is really involved in and is in complete control of every moment of our lives.

In chapter 3 of Ecclesiastes, Solomon shares his wise conclusion – the fact that God has indeed laid out the exact time frame and series of events for our lives. We do not live a life of random occurrences, but rather our lives follow a specific plan – an appointed time - orchestrated by our amazing God. Not only are birth and death planned in advance, but likewise literally everything else we experience throughout our lives is appointed by God.

So what are we to make of all this? Solomon struggled with the question of “what is our life supposed to be all about?” He came to the only conclusion that makes any sense at all. It is God who is in complete control. We can never fathom how this all works simply because our God is beyond anything that we could ever grasp. Solomon concludes in verse eleven “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”

Our Responsorial Psalm takes us to the logical and comforting conclusion to these facts. The Lord is truly our rock. He is our fortress, our stronghold, our deliverer and our shield. Even though we are only one of billions of individuals He has created, we can indeed place our total trust in God. He is fully capable of knowing each of us individually and is involved in the details of each of our lives. A fact that is truly beyond comprehension and yet so very comforting ! This fact encourages us to boldly use this time in each of our lives to live for our Lord and Savior while we work to point others to Jesus.

Both today’s Alleluia in Mark and the Gospel in Luke point to the absolute fact that Jesus is our eternal Lord and Savior. A fact that we pray everyone will truly embraces.

Let's pray ...

Dear Heavenly Father, help us to find eternal peace with the fact that we will never be able to fully grasp the magnitude of who You are. Help us to remain forever grateful that You are fully engaged in every moment of our lives. Help us to keep our eyes constantly upon You so that Your love may effectively flow through us, enabling our lives to point to You and You alone. In the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ. Amen

***

SAINT OF THE DAY

Saint Vincent de Paul

(1580 – September 27, 1660)

Saint Vincent de Paul’s Story

The deathbed confession of a dying servant opened Vincent de Paul’s eyes to the crying spiritual needs of the peasantry of France. This seems to have been a crucial moment in the life of the man from a small farm in Gascony, France, who had become a priest with little more ambition than to have a comfortable life.

The Countess de Gondi—whose servant he had helped—persuaded her husband to endow and support a group of able and zealous missionaries who would work among poor tenant farmers and country people in general. Vincent was too humble to accept leadership at first, but after working for some time in Paris among imprisoned galley slaves, he returned to be the leader of what is now known as the Congregation of the Mission, or the Vincentians. These priests, with vows of poverty, chastity, obedience, and stability, were to devote themselves entirely to the people in smaller towns and villages.

Later, Vincent established confraternities of charity for the spiritual and physical relief of the poor and sick of each parish. From these, with the help of Saint Louise de Marillac, came the Daughters of Charity, “whose convent is the sickroom, whose chapel is the parish church, whose cloister is the streets of the city.” He organized the rich women of Paris to collect funds for his missionary projects, founded several hospitals, collected relief funds for the victims of war, and ransomed over 1,200 galley slaves from North Africa. He was zealous in conducting retreats for clergy at a time when there was great laxity, abuse, and ignorance among them. He was a pioneer in clerical training and was instrumental in establishing seminaries.

Most remarkably, Vincent was by temperament a very irascible person—even his friends admitted it. He said that except for the grace of God he would have been “hard and repulsive, rough and cross.” But he became a tender and affectionate man, very sensitive to the needs of others.

Pope Leo XIII made him the patron of all charitable societies. Outstanding among these, of course, is the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, founded in 1833 by his admirer Blessed Frédéric Ozanam.

Reflection

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The Church is for all God’s children, rich and poor, peasants and scholars, the sophisticated and the simple. But obviously the greatest concern of the Church must be for those who need the most help—those made helpless by sickness, poverty, ignorance, or cruelty. Vincent de Paul is a particularly appropriate patron for all Christians today, when hunger has become starvation, and the high living of the rich stands in more and more glaring contrast to the physical and moral degradation in which many of God’s children are forced to live.

Saint Vincent de Paul is the Patron Saint of:

Charitable Societies

***

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orthodoxydaily · 10 months ago

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Saints&Reading: Sunday, April 14, 2024

april 1_april 14

VENERABLE BARSANUPHIUS OF OPTINA (1913)

Paul I. Plikhanov was born in the city of Samara on July 5,1845, the son of John and Natalia Plikhanov. His mother died in childbirth, and his father later remarried so that his son would have a mother. Although his stepmother was very strict, she was a real mother to him, and he loved her very much.

As a descendant of the Orenburg Cossacks, Paul was enrolled in the Polotsk Cadet Corps. He completed his studies at the Orenburg Military School and received an officer’s commission. He later graduated from the Petersburg Cossack Staff Officers’ School, and also served at the headquarters of the Kazan military district and eventually rose to the rank of colonel.

Once, as he was sick with pneumonia, Paul sensed that he was about to die. He asked his orderly to read the Gospel to him, and passed out. Then he had a vision in which the heavens seemed to open, and he was afraid because of the great light. His whole sinful life passed before him, and he was overcome with repentance. A voice told him he should go to Optina Monastery, but the doctors did not think he would recover. His health did improve, however, and the colonel visited Optina. In August 1889 the Elder of the Monastery was Saint Ambrose (October 10), who told Paul to set his worldly affairs in order. Two years later, Saint Ambrose blessed him to cut all ties to the world and told him to enter Optina within three months.

It was not easy for the colonel to resign his commission within the specified three month period, because obstacles were placed in his way. In fact, he was offered a promotion to the rank of general, and was asked to delay his retirement. Some people even tried to arrange a marriage for him, laughing at his intention to go to the monastery. Only his stepmother was happy that he wished to become a monk. On the very last day of the three months he concluded his affairs and arrived at Optina. However, Saint Ambrose was already laid out in his coffin in the church.

Saint Anatole I (January 25) succeeded Father Ambrose as Elder, and he assigned Paul to Hieromonk Nectarius (April 29) as his cell attendant. He was accepted as a novice in 1892, and tonsured as a rassophore in 1893. Over the next ten years he advanced through the various stages of monastic life, including ordination as deacon (1902), and as priest (1903). The monk Paul was secretly tonsured into the mantiya in December of 1900 because of a serious illness. When they asked him what name he wished to receive, he said it did not matter. They named him in honor of Saint Barsanuphius of Tver and Kazan (April 11). Although he recovered, they did not give him the mantiya until December of 1902 after the Liturgy when it was revealed that he had been tonsured on his sickbed.

On September 1, 1903 Father Barsanuphius was appointed to assist Elder Joseph, the skete Superior, in the spiritual direction of the skete brethren and the sisters of the Shamordino convent.

At the beginning of the Russo-Japanese war in 1904, Father Barsanuphius was sent to the Far East as a military chaplain, where he ministered to wounded soldiers. The war ended in August 1905, and Saint Barsanuphius returned to Optina on November 1, 1905.

Since Elder Joseph had become too old and frail to administer the skete’s affairs, Father Barsanuphius was appointed as Superior of the skete in his place. Father Barsanuphius soon reestablished order and discipline, paid off debts, repaired buildings, etc. As Superior, he combined strictness with paternal concern and tenderness for those under him.

Saint Barsanuphius, like the other Elders of Optina, possessed the gifts of clairvoyance and of healing people afflicted with physical and spiritual ailments. One of his spiritual sons, Father Innocent Pavlov, recalled his first Confession with the Elder. He became fearful because Father Barsanuphius seemed to know his innermost thoughts, reminding him of people and events which he had forgotten. The saint spoke gently and told him that it was God who had revealed to him these things about Father Innocent. “During my lifetime, do not tell anyone about what you are experiencing now,” he said, “but you may speak of it after my death.”

Saint Barsanuphius loved spiritual books, especially the Lives of the Saints. He often told people that those who read these Lives with faith benefit greatly from doing so. The answers to many of life’s questions can be found by reading the Lives of the Saints, he said. They teach us how to overcome obstacles and difficulties, how to stand firm in our faith, and how to struggle against evil and emerge victorious. Although the Lives of the Saints were widely available, it saddened the Elder that more people did not read them.

Saint Barsanuphius commemorated many saints each day during his Rule of prayer, and this was not accidental. Each saint, he once explained, had some particular importance in his life. If, for example, some significant event took place, he would look to see which saints were commemorated on that day, then he would begin to commemorate them each day. Later he noticed that on their Feast Day, they would often deliver him from some danger or trouble. On December 17, 1891, the commemoration of the Prophet Daniel and the three holy youths, he left Kazan and never returned. That was the day he decided to leave the world, and Saint Barsanuphius felt that God had delivered him from a furnace of passions. Just as the three youths were delivered from the fiery furnace because they would not bow down before idols, the Elder always believed that he left the world unharmed because he refused to bow down before the idols of lust, pride, gluttony, etc.

By 1908, Saint Barsanuphius seemed to fall ill more frequently, and began to speak of his approaching death. In April of that year, someone sent him a package containing the Great Schema. Father Barsanuphius had long desired to be tonsured into the Great Schema before his death, but he had told no one of this except for the archimandrite. Therefore, he regarded this as a sign that he would soon die.

One night in July 1910, the Elder became so ill that he had to leave church during Vigil and return to his cell. The next morning, July 11, he was so weak that he could not sit up by himself. That evening he was tonsured into the Great Schema.

Father Barsanuphius began to recover, but there were new problems in the monastery. New monks came in from spiritually lax environments. They did not understand the ascetical nature of monasticism or the whole notion of eldership, and so they began to clamor for reform and change. They wanted to assume positions of authority, and to close the skete. Because of their complaints, Father Barsanuphius was removed from Optina and assigned as igumen of the Golutvinsky Monastery. When he arrived to take up his duties, Father Barsanuphius found the monastery in a state of physical and spiritual decline. Nevertheless, he did not lose heart, and soon the monastery began to revive. More people began to visit, once they heard that an Optina Elder had come to Goluvinsky, and the monastery’s financial position also began to improve. However, the rebellious brethren caused him great sorrow, and he had to expel some of them

At the beginning of 1913, Saint Barsanuphius became ill again and asked Metropolitan Macarius of Moscow for permission to retire to Optina, but that was not to be. He fell asleep in the Lord on April 1, and his body remained in the church of Golotvino until April 6 (which was also Lazarus Saturday). After the funeral, his body was placed on a train and sent to Optina for burial. The train arrived at Kozelsk Station on April 8, and the coffin was carried to Optina by clergy.

The Moscow Patriarchate authorized local veneration of the Optina Elders on June 13, 1996. The work of uncovering the relics of Saints Leonid, Macarius, Hilarion, Ambrose, Anatole I, Barsanuphius and Anatole II began on June 24/July 7, 1998 and was concluded the next day. However, because of the church Feasts (Nativity of Saint John the Baptist, etc.) associated with the actual dates of the uncovering of the relics, Patriarch Alexey II designated June 27/July 10 as the date for commemorating this event. The relics of the holy Elders now rest in the new church of the Vladimir Icon of the Mother of God.

The Optina Elders were glorified by the Moscow Patriarchate for universal veneration on August 7, 2000.

VENERABLE GERONTIUS, YOUTH, CANONARCH OF THE KIEV CAVE (14th.c.)

Saint Gerontius lived during the fourteenth century. He was a monk of the Kiev Caves Monastery and fulfilled the obedience of canonarch (leader of church singing). He spent all his life at the monastery, in ascetic deeds of abstinence, obedience, and prayer.

Saint Gerontius was buried in the Far Caves. His memory is celebrated also together with the Synaxis of the Saints of the Far Caves, on August 28.

EPHESIANS 5:9-19

9 (for the fruit of the Spirit is in all goodness, righteousness, and truth), 10 finding out what is acceptable to the Lord. 11 And have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather expose them. 12 For it is shameful even to speak of those things which are done by them in secret. 13 But all things that are exposed are made manifest by the light, for whatever makes manifest is light. 14 Therefore He says: "Awake, you who sleep, Arise from the dead, And Christ will give you light." 15 See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, 16 redeeming the time, because the days are evil. 17 Therefore do not be unwise, but understand what the will of the Lord is. 18 And do not be drunk with wine, in which is dissipation; but be filled with the Spirit, 19 speaking to one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord,

MARK 9:17-31

17 Then one of the crowd answered and said, "Teacher, I brought You my son, who has a mute spirit. 18 And wherever it seizes him, it throws him down; he foams at the mouth, gnashes his teeth, and becomes rigid. So I spoke to Your disciples, that they should cast it out, but they could not. 19 He answered him and said, "O faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? How long shall I bear with you? Bring him to Me." 20 Then they brought him to Him. And when he saw Him, immediately the spirit convulsed him, and he fell on the ground and wallowed, foaming at the mouth. 21 So He asked his father, "How long has this been happening to him?" And he said, "From childhood. 22 And often he has thrown him both into the fire and into the water to destroy him. But if You can do anything, have compassion on us and help us. 23 Jesus said to him, "If you can believe, all things are possible to him who believes." 24 Immediately the father of the child cried out and said with tears, "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!" 25 When Jesus saw that the people came running together, He rebuked the unclean spirit, saying to it: "Deaf and dumb spirit, I command you, come out of him and enter him no more!" 26 Then the spirit cried out, convulsed him greatly, and came out of him. And he became as one dead, so that many said, "He is dead." 27 But Jesus took him by the hand and lifted him up, and he arose. 28 And when He had come into the house, His disciples asked Him privately, "Why could we not cast it out?" 29 So He said to them, "This kind can come out by nothing but prayer and fasting." 30 Then they departed from there and passed through Galilee, and He did not want anyone to know it. 31 For He taught His disciples and said to them, "The Son of Man is being betrayed into the hands of men, and they will kill Him. And after He is killed, He will rise the third day."

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristianity #easternorthodoxchurch #originofchristianity #holyscriptures #gospel #wisdom #spirituality #saints

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simplegenius042 · 1 year ago

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could i get some silva's hope pls?

Of course @sharkyboshaw!

Silva's Hope (or the Hope County Arc) is one of the main FC5 fics that is the pinnacle star of Far Cry The Silver Chronicles. It's my deputy Silva Omar's main story and (mostly) follows the events of the game up until certain points (things start to change like with her final hostile confrontation with John and when Joseph talks about his dead wife and child). This fic delves into Silva's past (the Archipelagoes, Elsa, Irene and their daughter, her father and his Congregation, Paul, his apostles, the massacre, so much more) and present (Hope County, the Resistance, the Ryes, Faith, her grief, so on), as well as her fight for the future, both her own and the county's. I've got this "thematic paralleling" going on between Silva's past and present, how it seems to be going down the same, when in actuality that's the illusion Silva is stuck in and just can't let go of. A lot of it is still under development, but with what I've written so far? I'm liking the direction its heading.

Silva's Hope tackles themes of dealing with loss, trying to find yourself again, a total deconstruction on the black-and-white moral view of the world, the importance of relationships (familial, platonic, and romantic) as well as the deception and hypocrisy that hides around every corner in both allies and enemies alike (or in this case how those two things are embodied in a single character and even a group... I'll give you a hint; it's not Joseph, nor is it Eden's Gate, but they certainly do play a part with those themes).

Silva struggles a lot... and not simply with her fight to just simply exist as she is in the face of ideals and occupations that either seek to ensure she doesn't or restrict her future to a set course. Externally and internally, from past and in present, Silva deals with demons. Which really sucks when she's putting the county's survival on top of her own shoulders, and her medication to suppress that trauma that's built up within her for years has run out and being constantly drenched in a hallucinogenic airborne drug that can project anything from a person's psyche if the local Bliss handlers aren't around to steady it sure doesn't help.

Case in point, the snippet of the closing act of an unnamed chapter below the cut:

[TW/CW: Inhalation of hallucinogenic drugs, arson, maybe attempted murder (of self?), swearing and mentions of war crimes]

With slow breathes, Silva awkwardly rolled around to face the destruction she caused.

Holding herself upright by anchoring her arms around her knees, she watched with stoned grey eyes as fire vacuumed in the green mist, consuming it like an endless fuel, dazzling with sparkles more than Gaius' clothing ever did. It was a mesmerizing sight, one that she needed to get away from, but she couldn't find the energy to do so.

A small portion of the populace in Montana needed her help, and here she was, watching a florist's conservatory crumble to the weight of itself to be consumed by flames that she had set alight.

Lindsey and Whitehorse would probably be pissed at her for destroying the laboratory, but Virgil had asked her to bring down the Bliss operations, however she pleased. She's sure this will earn at least a pleased laugh from Lader once the news reaches the woman.

Though beautiful in its own way, Silva thought she'd... feel more catharsis from burning this building down. Maybe she was just tired, but she felt disappointment that this wasn't as satisfying as seeing Zhan's Monastery burn and crumble over the cliff side.

The soft crunch of grass echoed from behind her, a mimic of the real thing she could guess, and with a heavy weight pushing against her mind, she could guess who it was behind her.

"I'm not apologizing Faith," Silva stated aloud, allowing her bluntness to carry clearly across, "You and I both knew this was an inevitability. So you can keep your holier-than-thou "these flowers bring hope" sentiment to yourself, cause I'm not in the mood for it."

No verbal answer came, only the silent treatment that Faith liked to frequently use when something displeased her.

For someone who proclaimed that Joseph freed her from herself, she certainly had a habit of keeping thoughts to herself. A difference I've noticed between Faith and Zhan... the bruja demoniaca was far more honest than the young woman she encountered now.

Silva opened her mouth to say something to Faith... but her words were lost as soon as she heard that chuckle from behind her.

A chuckle. Not a giggle, the childish, playful, frustrating, melodic giggle Faith let slip whenever she tried to bring down her guard, whenever she tried to get the deputy to open up, whenever Silva told a joke when she felt comfortable to do so. This wasn't the giggle she hated herself for finding to be nice and safe to be around.

This was a haunting chuckle that mocked her, a chuckle amongst the maniacal laughter which entrapped her within the night terrors that persisted almost every night when she could receive sleep. A chuckle, sophisticated and condescending, belonging to a young woman of high-class, shameless in her heinous immorality, an apathetic warmongering merchant who specialized in chemical warfare, producing nightmarish poisons and concoctions that resulted in the slow deaths of families and communities, horrifying the likes of Kamski to the point the older man couldn't bare the idea of facing her.

A chuckle that should never even be able to uttered again, not amongst the living. The chuckle that belong to the Apostles' proclaimed "Herald of Death"; Zhan Tiri, the only woman she would call a bastarda despite how little it emphasized the amount of blood that stained the woman's hands underneath the dark gloves.

"Such foul words Silva. And here I thought you appreciated my honesty," the wicked viper chastised from behind, giving a demeaning tsk, "You should wash out the filth in that mouth of yours with some soap... the toxins would certainly be doing you a favor."

Exhaustion forgotten, nausea forgotten, bruises forgotten as coherent thought froze and her body took action instead. Grabbing the pistol from her holster, Silva did not care for how many bullets were in the chamber, for whatever number would be good enough for her, as long as she got a good shot, like last time. But last time was with her last bullet, for the illusions wasted most of the lead.

The deputy aimed, grip shaking as she stared at the small woman, still donning her black dress, gloves and heels. A beaded head strap rested on her forehead, a purple gem in the middle. Her faded dark hair was still braided in twin buns, her face holding dark circles belonging to a chronic insomniac who voluntarily overworked herself, the smirk highlighting the black lipstick she wore. Her purple eyes still held the same hunger, the same arrogance she had until Silva put a bullet between her eyes.

Silva's wide eyes refused to blink, for even a moment to lose sight of the mistress of toxins could end in her retching up her own blood if she wasn't careful.

"You're... no, you're dead," Silva uttered, shaking her head as she took a step back from the woman who was only a head shorter than her, "I fucking killed you!"

Zhan Tiri's eyes widened her mouth agape as she feigned a gasp, gloved hand to her mouth, "Did you now?"

Zhan Tiri lips pursed and her brows furrowed as she began examining herself, hands patting down on her body and then tracing her forehead for the hole that Silva knew she fire her last bullet through.

Finding nothing, Zhan Tiri looked to Silva and gave a mocking shrug. her grin showing the fangs disguised as teeth.

"Are you so certain about that?" Zhan grinned, showing the fangs disguised as teeth.

Silva tried to control her breathing, body protesting as she remained standing, focusing her aim towards Zhan's forhead again.

Zhan Tiri took a small step closer, the vindictive grin on her face never disappearing, "Surely you have more to say to me than this? After all, Paul did say we were fami-"

Silva fired her pistol. She heard the bang. She saw the projectile hit the target.

But no body fell. No body laid on the grass at all. In fact, Zhan Tiri disappeared in a puff of green mist, unlike the grey of her Torment.

Silva glanced around for the bruja, turning to the foliage, to the road, to the burning conservatory and the Angels that laid unmoving, then back to the spot Zhan was in, only to be face to face with the woman.

Silva couldn't act fast enough before Zhan burst in a cloud of Bliss as she pushed the deputy. The push wasn't physical, so Silva wasn't effected.

However, she could not stop herself from tripping on herself when the Bliss clouded her vision, coughing as she slipped and stumbled, tumbling down the short slope til she was closer to what was one Jessop Conservatory, the surviving green mist worming its way to leech off the deputy.

Silva pushed herself up, catching sight of the deceased Apostle who stood with a haughty posture.

Silva eyed the short woman, catching breathes of Bliss as she panted, and defiantly said, "You're not real."

Zhan hummed inquisitively, "Perhaps. But I'm real enough for you, sister."

"Cut the shit, you never cared for his spiel on "family", not in life and certainly in death... you only endured it for the resources he could provide," Silva countered, one hand on her pistol, other hand reaching for her dagger.

"In some ways you are right," Zhan Tiri concured, "But in other ways... well, I guess we'll never know."

The herald looked to the Bliss spilled about, the flames ever consuming the drug, and rested her gaze on the Angels behind Silva.

"But this surely is quite the scene you've made. And what a waste for this... "Faith" girl of yours," Zhan said with a faux pout, "All that time and effort set back who knows how long. On the bright side though, her talents lives on, if only wasted for that prophet. I think I'd be a far more better mentor, wouldn't you agree?"

Silva gripped the handle of her dagger as she pulled it out, the Bliss tied around her wrist.

In her peripheral, she thought she saw movement with one of the Angel's bodied, but ignored it in favor of keeping her eyes on Zhan.

"Get out," Silva drew her dagger to sit alongside her pistol as she gritted out with venom, "Of my fucking head!"

The surrounded bodies of Angels started convulsing, muffled groaning and screaming coming from behind their masks, catching Silva's attention. Zhan Tiri smirked.

"If you can fight for it."

Silva counted the Angels rising up from the ground, the ones she swore she took out with her rifle not moments ago. Shit, SHIT, why couldn't have the explosion consumed them too?!

"This has been such a pleasant welcome back for me, Silva," Zhan told the deputy, Bliss circling around the deceased herald's heels, raising her like she was on a colossal podium, "But now?"

Silva raised a gun at the towering Zhan, the Angels standing at their full heights around the Deputy. Glancing about, aiming her weapons in defence, Silva could count three unarmed while four held an assortment of tools like rakes, shovels, pipes and a burnt picket from a broken fence.

"Shall we pick up..."

Silva noticed how a mist of Bliss started rising up and grow in size around them, closing off the sights of the conservatory and the surrounding foliage.

Turning back to her old foe, one of the leading heralds of the former Apostles alongside Paul and his other "children", now held twin balls of Bliss, and was on a higher vantage point that looked like it could move. With a grin wide with shameless maliciousness and directed at Silva, the deputy was starting to wish she was confronting Faith now.

"...where we left off?"

Despite how much her body ached, Silva couldn't back down from this, despite how much she was going to hate it. Whether this was the Bliss, her psyche, or through whatever impossible means, real... she only had one thought to encapsulate how she felt in the moment before the Angels made their first move.

Fuck my life.

#my silva omar mutuals and readers! been hallucinating traumatic ghosts since after 2015 #far cry the silver chronicles #far cry 5 #wip: silva's hope #oc: silva omar #oc: paul yellowjack #faith seed #despite neither of the latter two above actually appearing in person #zhan tiri #an adapted version before she became the demon sorceress from rapunzel's tangled adventure show #before reincarnation she was a human who became a herald alongside paul (and others)#she appears as her canon/reincarnated self in “the untitledverse”#it's a whole lore thing don't worry about it #this will make a lot more sense in the prequel

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pseudobabble · 2 years ago

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My Really Lukewarm Take on Damien Chazelle’s Babylon

Subtitled “Playing Jenga With The Devil: Or, The Price You Pay For Once Upon a Time In Hollywood AU Fix-It Fanfiction”. I touch upon Whiplash + Once Upon a Time in Hollywood at some length here too. Whatever

At a certain period of time, in certain circles, there was a recurrent phenomenon of people who made a big deal out of liking “film” but seemingly had no real grasp of the medium or major contributions to it beyond the most recent (How are you going to have a release from within the last calendar year on your Letterboxd favorites?) or the least arcane of the canon (Citizen Kane, Scarface, Psycho—Film Appreciation community college level core. Not to knock community college). What these people had a preternatural grasp on, though, was what made a bad movie—and it wasn’t uncommon to come across people who professed a deep, significant, undying love for cinema and who could not name a movie they liked that wasn’t a significant part of recent pop culture, but who could at length describe everything wrong with movies like Troll 2, Manos: The Hands of Fate, Birdemic, The Room. It got to a point where it seemed like there were more people who defined their love of film by their capacity to recognize when things were bad. Pointing to the obvious faults and flaws in low-budget movies, frequently made by non-Americans, where there were obvious and glaring lilts in conversations, plot movements, and character motivations, somehow constituted a keen sense of film criticism, even though a lot of it felt more like when a child knows that the gifts Santa supposedly brought had the same wrapping paper that their mom used for her coworker’s Christmas gift. To sit with a movie and enjoy it is to buy into an illusion, to let a lie happen to you. Sometimes the lie works. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s variable. Some lies are obvious to everyone. It doesn’t take a detective to figure out that Santa didn’t conveniently have that same roll of paper, and likewise it doesn’t take much sage wisdom to understand that a first time filmmaker working with a limited budget and minimal proficiency (and weighed down by overconfidence) will have a harder time pulling the wool over your eyes than people with filmic pockets deeper than most graves, understanding of what works due to years of immersion in the field, and a steady level of what they are and aren’t capable of.

I don’t know if this category of person still lingers in the dredges of YouTube and Letterboxd, living life through the lens of 2011 like girls who are still devoted to One Direction members. I also don’t necessarily lack understanding of their thought process: negatives always stick out more than positives, and there’s a sense of community and unification in all collectively laughing at the same elements of something. The problem ends up being that in that collective experience, it is at the expense of someone’s expression. Remember, a lot of these same people have huge aspirations of making it big as a filmmaker, possibly the next Snyder or Fincher or Aronofsky. I think John Krasinski actually said something really lame about this that Paul Thomas Anderson told him:

He recalled an incident that happened at his house where during a discussion about a film, Krasinski casually remarked, “It’s not a good movie.” Anderson quietly explained the actor as to why it is important not to label films as good or bad.

“He so sweetly took me aside and said very quietly, ‘Don’t say that. Don’t say that it’s not a good movie. If it wasn’t for you, that’s fine, but in our business, we’ve all got to support each other.’ The movie was very artsy, and he said, ‘You’ve got to support the big swing. If you put it out there that the movie’s not good, they won’t let us make more movies like that,'” Krasinski revealed.

Praising the Phantom Thread director, the actor said Anderson is “defending the value of the artistic experience.”

Crazy how you can afford to not be cutthroat after several Oscar noms. What a nice guy!

The thing about the bulk of these people is the most they’ll accomplish (if they ever do this) is filming an unmemorable short of worse quality before either dropping out to become a pothead, switching majors to something their parents are more approving of, or maybe persevering, making a few other shitty shorts, hacking it out through the bottom slums of the film school industry wherever is closest to them, writing Letterboxd reviews where they rate the movie out of five in the review despite the star rating being a native function. Maybe they will make YouTube videos reviewing the newest Netflix and Marvel releases. But I don’t think these people end up miserable about their fate. They acclimate. People stretch and shrink and contort to the box they find themselves in. Especially if they lack drive and discipline—if they’ve invested nothing more than time, shed no blood, sweat, or tears, then departure from one’s fantasy is really easy because they didn’t really do much to bring it forward. They imagined a glimpse of it, and that was enough. There’s nothing wrong with that. That’s what a movie is at the end of day—you concoct a fantasy. Sometimes no one else gets let in to your dream and careers die before they’re even born and entire galaxies no one will ever know about go down with them.

Sometimes, though, other people will make movies about characters who are super motivated, totally slavishly devoted to their craft and the idea of being the best at it. Even if it’s something as banal as slamming sticks against a drum set, over and over again until your palms are torn open and blood is all over the drums, but it’ll come right off, and all over the drumsticks, and you’re not sure if there’s some kind of finish on them that prevents staining or if end of day they’re just plain old porous wood that will let your blood seep into its crevices, bright red right now but you can just see it turning brown, because that’s inevitable—as inevitable as your attempt towards greatness, and as futile, too. And because every movie about art is really supposed to be a movie about the filmmaker in relation to filmmaking, this is about how you will break your own bones, hurt your own body, ruin your relationship with the hot girl who works at the theater you go to with your daddy because film is just that important to you.

But also, sometimes the idea of that and the presentation of it is a lot more romantic and grand and big than the follow up, and sometimes you make a movie about that because the caring is what you know people care about, and not what happens after to people who care too much about the wrong things, because nobody really thinks they care about the wrong things and if you say afterwards in an interview “I think there's a certain amount of damage that will always have been done. Fletcher will always think he won and Andrew will be a sad, empty shell of a person and will die in his 30s of a drug overdose. I have a very dark view of where it goes” no one really thinks twice about how the movie is kind of weird and in bad faith then.

Because really then the entire movie is build-up to a moment, and everything before is preordained because the characters are just your puppets to get a specific moment out of them. Everything is carefully, perfectly arranged, like a tea party, but you want bad things to happen. You want your stuffed animals to be horrible to each other, and you want a hint of gruesomeness—think of bloody hands being submerged into an iced pitcher, the diluted blood when he takes his hands out being evocative of Andrew being rendered into submission by his want. Think of a 19 year old boy, bruised and bleeding after running from a car accident, getting blood all over a drum set for the second time in the movie. Think of the tableau Chazelle paints in his description of what happens after the movie: for some reason, he wants someone to suffer. Not really because of something they wanted at a point; remember: he decided they wanted that, because it made it easier to justify their suffering. And that suffering culminates in a shared glance across a stage, and that’s the point of the movie: disrupting a live jazz show for a look of vague approval, and eventually you die after. Every moment of this is a blip on the radar for everyone else.

A lot of specific sequences and events that have been documented to history are, to us, preordained because we know how they go. A lot of stories share the same arc, the same premises, the same kind of order. Sharon Tate will have never not been murdered on Cielo Drive; for whatever reason, in Once Upon a Time In Hollywood, Tarantino offers her a reprieve, along with the rest of her housemates. Why? Tarantino obviously doesn’t have any particular fondness towards women. But he makes sure to show her off, safe and sound, not even necessarily rescued but glossed over by her would-be assailants at the very end of the movie, after the forces coming after her have been vanquished, after the brute who vanquished them has been safely carried off to the hospital for minor wounds, with the promise of bagels in the morning and a command to his only friend—and thus his best friend—to go to bed, enjoy his night with his spooked wife. But instead Rick’s invited to have a drink with Tate, and Jay Sebring, and everyone else. Tarantino didn’t need to make a statement on the fate of the characters after the movie—waning careers, marriage troubles, or hospitalizations aside, everyone’s alive and fine when the credits roll. But for some reason he decided to describe Rick Dalton’s revitalized career after the movie ends. Tarantino’s not a director known for empathy or being kind to his characters or giving characters in his movies space to live—but Once Upon a Time is an exercise in all of those things. Even the bloodbath towards the end could be far more gruesome or unwarranted, and it’s easy to sneer at just how excessive it does feel until you remember that those are fictional representations of the people who actually did kill Sharon Tate, and while the movie is in part about the possibility of preserving a life, it’s also about comeuppance. Cliff’s comeuppance is in his history of brutality making him the perfect candidate to fight off three unruly teens; Rick’s comeuppance is his career finally taking off after participating in the spaghetti westerns he so harshly slandered. Tate’s comeuppance is getting to live, and getting to see herself in a movie. You get the idea: Tarantino’s only being harsh in his just deserts as is requisite.

I want you to imagine, as I have frequently since seeing Babylon, Damien Chazelle sitting in a dark room with Once Upon a Time In Hollywood playing, and seething thinking about what a waste so much of it is—why is it so slow? Why isn’t Brad Pitt the lead? Why isn’t Margot Robbie in more of this? I want to see Margot Robbie naked, she’s so hot in Wolf of Wall Street. Why hasn’t the Manson family actually shown up yet? Who’s that blonde girl with the big tits? Why isn’t this movie more 60s? Why isn’t Charles Manson in this that much? Why isn’t he celebrating the beauty and magic of cinema? Where are the drugs? Where are the hippies? Why isn’t there more jazz music?

Whiplash is a good movie. This seems to be a fluke attributable to the performances in it and the simplicity of the plot in comparison to La La Land—which isn’t at all complex, it just isn’t about a 19 year old college student who wants to be the best little drummer boy in the world. First Man is the first ever AI generated movie, featuring a goodie bag of small roles from a lot of C, D, E, and F list actors. Clint Eastwood was originally supposed to direct it. It probably would have been better if he had. None of these three films, nor the one film that preceded them, could have prepared anyone for Babylon, a movie about a day laborer (?) a rising starlet (?) an italian larper (?) Jeff Garlin as Harvey Weinstein (?). There’s a lot, it’s a lot.

The components of the movie are overbearing and earnestly not worth dissecting. What’s more compelling to me is Damien Chazelle eviscerating Robbie and Pitt because he doesn’t really get to see them get eviscerated in Hollywood. The actual propulsion and process of the movie and the landscape and trajectory it takes you through really doesn’t matter because it’s less a film and more of a woodchipper. There’s an input and an output. Input: Actors. Output: their demise, all caught on film.

What also sticks out to me significantly, too, is the “so bad it’s good” movie seems to be a relic now—everything mediocre now always has a slick sheen to it, a polish, a once-over and special attention that the previously mentioned laughingstocks would never have gotten. Babylon is something of a drain to watch because of its utter humorlessness—what happens when the fuck-up isn’t even that fun to gaze at anymore? What happens when there’s nothing to jeer at?

I don’t think Chazelle played well with others as a kid. He isn’t very nice when he sees someone else playing with a toy he wants, to the point of taking it and breaking it. Now no one has the toy, but Chazelle has the satisfaction of knowing he made something bad happen.

Film is illusory and you can make the same car crash happen a thousand times but it’s a simulation and synthetic and even if it feels real or doesn’t feel real, no matter the staging or the framing, it’s not a real thing that’s happened. It only goes so far as you buy into it. Who’s buying into Babylon? Letterboxd contrarians desperate to formulate a hot take? Chazelle, because he’s decided to?

The problem with Chazelle is the same problem with most other 3rd generation/Millennial era filmmakers: what’s left when everything is homage? What’s left when everything is pastiche? You take acknowledgement of the canon and break it down like Legos because end of the day, who cares about creating a new canon? People obsessed with it won’t even let their own stuff in—which is why Tarantino worships Pauline Kael instead of Welles or Truffaut. The 2nd generation of filmmakers never anticipated the 3rd taking their work as seriously as they had once taken the previous masters. No one can indict them for that, but what happens when the guy looking up to you isn’t all that younger than you? Tarantino himself is already just playing with the toolset left to him. Chazelle’s just doing the same. The only difference being they’re both playing with it at the same time and one has clear comprehension and mastery and the other is just really really interested in fucking around with what the other one built.

Do you think Leonardo DiCaprio feels left out because he wasn’t in Babylon? Or do you think he’s more worried about global warming? Or dating another 25 year old? Do you think Miles Teller is relieved Damien Chazelle abandoned him for Ryan Gosling, or do you think he’s too busy enjoying being the new face to the military propaganda film complex? I think he’s probably grooming his mustache. Who cares

#babylon #once upon a time in hollywood #damien chazelle #quentin tarantino #whiplash

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m1ssunderstanding · 1 year ago

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Get Back Rewatch 55 Years On: Days Eleven and Twelve

The Different Beatle Arrivals outside apple are interesting to me.

Ringo: arrives first, in the passenger’s seat, has a chummy remark for his driver, a cheeky grin for the camera, and a kind nod for the scruffs.

John and Yoko: arrive second, in the back of their on-brand, white thing, with no acknowledgement of anyone (and Yoko accidentally goes for the front door then changes directions when she sees John going around the side)

George: drives himself, glances over his shoulder, locks his car door, and goes in. Again, no acknowledgement.

Paul: walks, studiously ignores the camera, bestows a condescending nod at the scruffs. (shouldn’t be sexy. Is. what else is new?)

Everything the scruffs said was perfection. Where are their parents? Who is taking care of them? Do they not go to school?

So glad for the boys that they took a day to hide from the cameras. I hope they all traded meaningful items of clothing and meditated and circle jerked and told each other how brilliant they were. (Oh gosh. Can you all imagine a circle-jerk plus yoko? Her and Paul furiously compete over who can hold John's eye contact?)

Short queens making the beatles look like child-labor supporters.

Look at that cute little impish grin. What do we think? Did George and John actually have a punch-up? George Martin went out of his way on at least two occasions to say that they did, in fact, come to blows. But I didn’t see any evidence on John the next day, and they both seem extremely comfortable joke-fighting here, where I don’t think they would if they’d real-fought a week or so ago. I don’t know, I think it’s very up for debate. But if they did, I actually think it would be a testament to the importance of the John and George dynamic. We always say how it shows how much John must’ve cared about Paul to sprint down the road and jump his fence over a missed recording session. What would it say about how much John must’ve cared about George if he punched him when he said he’d quit?

Either way, their *meaningful* rendition of “You are my sunshine” is heart-melting.

Yoko, the og sad beige mom.

Add juggling to Ringo’s talents in his cabaret/circus act with Paul.

Every old man obsessed with “tough, acerbic Lennon” needs to have “My rock and roll finger is bleeding, my rock and roll finger is hurt” played on a loop in their heads every time they open their mouths until they shut up.

Paul, why are you literally strong-arming Glyn into the studio? This man does not know how to touch another person.

Maybe they kept Magic Alex around just for laughs? It’s good to hear anyway, that they are fully aware they’re being conned.

The way George and Paul just in sync jump into their old choreography.

The way they could really have just gone off and done their own things while Glyn finishes setting up. But the idea just doesn’t occur to them. Why would they want to be anywhere else, doing anything else, with anyone else?

I feel like John right now because I’m like enjoying Paul’s sexy drumming face and then the camera switches and I’m like Oh Yoko you’re so pretty. And is this another *meaningful* cover? I’m going to have to make a list of all these and go through after I’m done with this and see which ones I think actually have a double meaning. “My baby left me” by Crudup. My main evidence here being Yoko’s Jim Halpert expression as John’s singing this at Paul.

How to get Paul to stop messing with your shit. A demonstration by Ringo Starr.

John is Not having Paul reading their bad press for the cameras.

And today, it’s John that needs a little Ringofection. I wonder if it had anything to do with “Aaaaall I want is youuuuuuuuu. Everything has got to be the way you want it toooooooooo.”

George looking at Ringo’s jumping jacks. I agree.

“Richard Rogers has got nothing on this boy. . . . Ah, sometimes, John, I don’t know.” “I just make it up as I go along.” “Oh, is that how you do it?” Again. He’s being silly, but he really does think you’re the smartest boy in the whole wide world, John. I hope you know that. (he definitely does not know that.)

ICONIC. One of my favorite moments of the whole series. Not a glance at each other. Perfectly synchronized.

Any particular significance with Dicky Murdock that anyone knows about?

Another favorite moment. The absolute marshmallow softness. Oh to have footage of Paul teaching John guitar chords on one of their childhood beds.

Not going to say it again, but boy am I thinking it.

Someone needs to make a compilation of all the times someone’s been caught giving John and Paul a WTF look.

#paul mccartney #the beatles #john lennon #mclennon #ringo starr #george harrison #get back

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cellarfulofnose · 2 years ago

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Cat Scratch Fever

Prompt #75 (long-awaited sequel to Hissy Fit). What's the matter--cat got your tongue?

For most of the month of May, any time John came through London, he'd go and see Dylan.

This morning, they hadn't even played music together, just put on a Joan Baez record and shared a joint, blowing the smoke out the bathroom window. Bob was staying in a little flat above a clothing shop for this leg of the tour, and the owners had already complained once about the smell (and five times about the noise). So they tried to be discreet. No yodeling, only one harmonica at a time, and smoke was to be blown outside.

The grass was tip-top as well, best shit John had ever tasted. American, Bob was keen to repeat. Won't get anything like this on your side of the pond. John would remind him the Beatles were to be in the States again in a matter of weeks, or else he'd just giggle a while if they'd been at it long enough. It was so potent, in fact, he half-believed he might be imagining it when a dark tabby cat padded into the bathroom and began to circle his leg.

Bob offered his hand, making kissing, smacking noises. The cat ignored him. "He's not real friendly," he explained.

When the cat jumped into John's lap, however, Bob laughed and said, "Seems like he likes you, though."

John happily scratched its small, purring head. "It's 'cause we're countrymen. He can smell the Yank on you."

"Hey, for all I care, you can keep him, man. All he ever does is shed."

John was about to diagnose Bob with a case of sour grapes, but he wasn't kidding. Layers, sheets of hair melted off the cat's back with every pass of his hand. A few strands hung in the air, too light to drift, but most stuck to John; to his hands, to his clothes.

...Interesting.

"Must be spring," John grinned. He pulled the cat against his chest, cooing encouragement. "Come 'ere, you. Hello. Come on." The cat made a few chirps and squeaks in reaction to being handled, but it moved as directed, and even began to knead John's chest, shedding so much hair John didn't know how it wasn't a Sphinx by now. Excellent. "Good boy. What's his name?"

"Lucky. He doesn't really belong to anyone, just comes and goes in the building. But I call him Lucky."

"That's a boy, Lucky," said John, rubbing under the cat's chin until his eyes pressed closed with gratitude. The coarse vibration of Lucky's purrs echoed off the tile.

Bob rose from the rim of the bath and tried a few friendly strokes down Lucky's back. Lucky mrrrped and seemed interested for a minute, lifting his spine, but then he shook his head and jumped down. Bob scoffed as they watched Lucky's tail disappear around the bathroom door.

"Ah, you scared him off," John chided.

"Hey, I'm doin' you a favor, man. Look at you." Bob held John's lapels apart to show what a mess Lucky had made of his shirt and pants. He started to brush some of the hairs away; perhaps with too much zeal. He sputtered, spitting half-heartedly as though a hair had managed to land on his tongue. "Fuckin' everywhere."

"I don't mind, really." John's cheeks hurt from smiling. This couldn't be more perfect. "I love cats, me."

"Yeah, well." Bob ground some ash from the end of the burnt-out joint and tried to get a light on it once more. "Not all of us are so fortunate as to have that relationship be mutual." Failing to light the end, he tsked and set it on the counter along with the lighter. After staring out the window a while, he turned back to John. "Where's my guitar? I'll show you a little--"

"I should be going, actually." John heaved himself off the bathroom floor and into a standing position, dusting ash and non-feline hair off the seat of his jeans. God. Even in London, Bob seemed intent on living like he'd never left Greenwich Village.

"Now?" Bob stood too, shakily, stiffly. "Where you headed?"

"Cavendish."

"Cavendish, that's--" Bob's eyes went wide with joy. "That's Paul's place, isn't it? Oh, I love Paul, man, he's such a little firecracker. You're goin' to see him? Tell him he's always welcome here anytime, he knows that."

John snorted as they left the bathroom. "Oh, and I'll give him a nice big kiss for you, shall I?"

Bob chuckled. "I don't know, man. Bring him around next time you come here. We'll have a good time."

John, being stoned, couldn't keep from smiling like a shark. You, me, Paul, and Lucky. "You know, Bobby?" He opened the door to leave. "I think I just might."

---

Martha started barking before John had even opened the gate, heralding his arrival. Clever lass, John thought. Thinks she's about to be chasing Lucky. There was only one creature at this address, though, who was about to get lucky--to coin a phrase.

Paul opened the door looking pleased as punch to see him, so John didn't think it would be out of the ordinary to press against him with a crushing hug. "Hi--" Paul said, ending in a wheeze as John held him tight. When John began to nuzzle against him, though, he let out a rumbling hum of interest before asking, "Would you like to--come in?" When he could find the air, that is.

John pulled apart from Paul with a satisfied sigh and held him at arm's length for a quick inspection. With a moment's glance, he could see a smattering of brown-and-white hairs that had transferred to Paul's clothes--a woolen sweater vest, no less. Practically Velcro. Brilliant. He started to answer, but Paul took on a very slight frown and sniffed the air. A lump rose at once in John's throat. His whole ruse was over before it'd even begun. Before he'd even set foot in the door.

But Paul merely raised an eyebrow and said, "Hope you've brought enough for the class," before nodding John inside.

John tried not to sigh with relief as he shut the door behind him. Paul was referring to the smell of grass on his clothes, nothing more. "It was all Dylan's. Sorry. Smoked the poor bastard out of house and home."

"That where you've been?" Paul fetched two teacups from the cupboard and started the water boiling.

"Yeah." As soon as John sat down, Martha started sniffing curiously at his trousers, so he shooed her away. "He asked after you, actually. He wants you to come round next time I go and see him."

"Did he? Our Bobby?" Paul's back was turned, but John could hear the smile in his voice. They were still just kids, really, when it came to Dylan, just giddy fans. "Well."

"I told him to keep dreaming. That you had better things to do than hang around Judas Iscariot."

Paul gave a humorless false laugh, then cleared his throat somewhat roughly. Already? thought John. So there's a grain of truth to the expression 'quick as a cat'. He kept talking, if only to cover his tracks, to hide how closely he was listening. "He's having an hell of a time at his shows, you know. They shout the most horrible things at him."

"Really."

"Yeah, or they just make noise. There was a group of them just blowin' into mouth organs any time he tried to sing."

Paul laughed and gave a little tug on his sweater, scratching under the collar. He might not have realized he was doing it, but any time he wasn't actively pouring tea or stirring in milk, he'd rub at his neck, scratch the back of his hand. "But really, here? I'd have thought back in New York, the folkies and the Beats and them would think he'd turned on them, but..."

"No accounting for taste," John shrugged, pushing up his glasses to see better.

"No, s'pose not." Paul loaded the cups onto a tray and coughed softly. From the back, John could see him pause, then raise a hand cautiously to his face. Paul stiffened, and his shoulders lifted, only to relax a moment later. He sniffed. So it begins, thought John with perverse glee.

When Paul brought the tea over, his nose had taken on a shade of pink, clearly just rubbed. He'd kill John if he said this, but it was damn cute. The appeal wasn't lost on John; the pinkish glow, the dark, watery lashes. That wasn't why he was doing this, mind you. Not exactly. It wasn't the same sort of instant turn-on for him that it was for Paul--and frankly, if it were, this whole experiment would be unethical in John's eyes. But it was guaranteed to get Paul incredibly flustered, and John wouldn't miss that for the world.

John thanked him and took a sip, but instead of sitting down, Paul strode back into the kitchen. He leaned forward against the counter, examining something in the mirror above the sink. John craned his neck around the corner, leering curiously. "What are you looking a--"

"...hh'nkxt! --hhhuh."

Before John could finish asking, Paul suddenly curled in on himself to smother a sneeze. John bit his lip--he couldn't resist. "How's that? Speak up."

"I did- didn't say anything." Paul sniffled, lingering in front of the mirror for a moment longer before returning to the front room. "Hey, he said, "look at this a minute, will you?" He bent down in front of John and pulled his shirt to the side, exposing his collarbone.

John blinked. "Salacious, I'm sure, but nothing I haven't seen before."

"No, I mean, it's all... Does it look red to you?"

Sure enough, Paul's cream skin had broken out in a faint rash on his neck and chest. Not blistering angry, but it didn't look comfortable. "Yeah, a bit," John said honestly. "Does it hurt?"

"No, it itches." Paul straightened, still scratching at the skin around his collar. He huffed, and John realized he was only breathing through his mouth. "I think it's..." Paul trailed off, blinking dazedly. Then he whirled around, one hand clamped tight around his mouth and nose to cut off a sharp inhale--though not tightly enough to fully suppress a sneeze.

"hdt'mphsh!"

Paul's shoulders practically shrank, like he was trying to disappear, but there was no way for John to plausibly deny he hadn't seen it this time. "Goodness me, bless you," he sang. "Nasty cold, you've got, it sounds like."

Paul ripped a tissue from the box on the coffee table. "It's not a cold," he muttered, nettled, his words muffled by the thin sheet of paper, and gave a very soft blow. After he'd mopped up all he could, he emerged carnation-pink. "I think--snff!--I think it's the sweater."

John swallowed. "Oh?"

"You know, maybe it's...wool."

Relief washed over John. For someone so explosively allergic to cats, Paul wasn't very good at spotting them. "And that's been happening since you put it on, has it?"

Paul shifted uncomfortably. "Not before you got here, but it, you know, it takes a while sometimes..."

John pasted on an expression of abject horror. "Oh, God, it's me, isn't it?"

"What--"

"You're allergic to me," John groaned.

Paul scoffed and rolled his eyes, so John taunted, "No? All right, prove it. Come here."

Paul eyed him incredulously, not wanting to believe John was being sincere. But once it sank in, he frowned. "That's not...It's not..."

"Reckon you've got nothing to worry about, then." John raised his eyebrows expectantly and spread his arms, as if for an embrace.

With one final exasperated sigh, Paul marched over and bent down to John's eye level. John cradled the back of his head, so that Paul's face pressed against his chest. Paul inhaled obediently, then raised his hands in a shrug; Nothing.

But John didn't let go, which forced him to breathe in again, and he froze. Again, a little more frantic, and now he was gasping, puffing short bursts of air into John's shirt. "Wait," he panted, "w-hh-! hhh-- wait...!" He started to pull away. John might have been sadistic, but he wasn't evil, so he let go, just in time for Paul to stagger backward and throw an arm over his face.

"kttchhoo! hh'Tschh!"

"Oh, Christ, it's over," John lamented, cheeks in his hands, shaking his head. "What'll become of the band..."

Paul surfaced long enough to snap, "You shut up, ihhh...it's n...! --hhp'tshoo! hh...hhh--!"

John rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "'Course, with today's technology, we'd never even have to be in the studio at the same time..."

"aht'schhew!" By now, Paul had stumbled over to the kitchen, facing away from John, bracing one hand on the door frame. The other arm, he'd shoved against his face, like he could stuff a lid on his allergic attack. He held his breath, then lurched forward, shivering violently with a volley of suppressed sneezes. Martha barked and whined.

"My stars," said John, not half impressed. "Think I'd need a rosary to bless that properly."

When at last he was able to breathe again, Paul straightened and coughed wetly, cradling his nose as though it might go off again. "Urgh...God. Fucki'g prick." He sniffed, then sighed through his mouth--it didn't do him much good.

"Maybe it's the grass," said John, ignoring the insult.

Paul pulled his sweater off over his head. "What?"

"On my clothes." John tugged at his shirt to jog Paul's memory. "Smoke, you know?"

Paul paused halfway through yanking a handful of tissues from the box, then seemed to catch John's meaning. "Oh, for..." He rolled his eyes; his whole upper torso, more like, shaking his head in disbelief, as he buried his nose in tissues and stalked down the hall.

John watched him go, then called out, "There's plenty of room for you in the temperance movement."

There was an uncharacteristic lack of a retort, then two breathless sneezes in quick succession. "Whatever you're wearing--snff!--put it in the wash," came Paul's congested voice a moment later.

John's hands flew to his collar on pure reflex, ready to strip to the skin. "All of it?"

Paul appeared in the hall again, bare as the day he was born, a silk robe draped over his arm. He sported a terribly affronted expression, made only slightly less intimidating by his weeping red eyes and nose; not that John was looking at those. "Yes," Paul grumbled, and slipped into the bathroom.

John sat frozen on the sofa a moment. The sound of water falling in the shower jarred him back to reality, and he tore off his clothes, nearly tripping over Martha as he hopped on one foot to wriggle out of his pants. He tossed them in the machine on top of Paul's and started a wash cycle, then barged into the bathroom.

It turned out that the steam did plenty to clear out Paul's sinuses. John helped out by sucking his cock under the hot water (fastest natural decongestant, he was always eager to repeat). Though Paul didn't stop sneezing for a good while, it wasn't as bad as the run-in with the kittens; he hadn't actually handled any live cats, just old hair. This time.

When they were lounging half-dressed in Paul's bed, though, John started to plan for the future. "He really wants to see you, you know. Dylan. I told him you'd come."

"I'd like to, yeah. When are you goin'?"

John shrugged. "Some time next week. He's leaving soon."

Paul agreed, even offered to drive. John reminded him that if the smoke proved to be too much for him--he didn't get to finish his promise, as Paul smacked him in the mouth with a pillow. He took it without complaint. It was less than he deserved: it was diabolical, this plan of his. But for the present moment, it was still between him and God.

---

As the week went by, John became less and less sure about this scheme of his. There was no guarantee the cat would even show. John had been to Dylan's place a dozen times before he met Lucky. Suppose he'd skipped town. Gotten run over by a bus. But it was spring, and he was a terrible shedder, so unless Dylan had deep-cleaned the place (which was a few slots below 'pigs flying' on the list of things likely to happen), it would be carpeted in dander and hair.

Paul wasn't about to let the grass theory fly anymore, either. Mid-week, he'd given John a ring, stoned as all get-out, to proudly proclaim he'd just sucked down a joint with no ill effects, and to jabber for an additional three hours. So the ruse was destined to be short-lived, but quite entertaining in the meantime.

It didn't stop John from throwing Paul a pointed look, raising his eyebrows as if to say Uh-oh, when Bob opened the door with a joint between his fingers. Paul ignored him, smiling a bit too brilliantly to be sincere as he embraced Bob. While they traded greetings, eagerly talking over each other like schoolgirls, John scouted the flat--no cat. He couldn't even see any hair, but between his eyes and Paul's nose, there was no contest as to which was sharper, more sensitive. It was a waiting game, now.

"So when am I gonna see you at one of my shows?" asked Bob. They sat around, smoking and sipping wine; John on the floor, Bob on a chair, and Paul on the piano bench.

"We can make it to one on the weekend, I think," Paul said, with a glance at John for confirmation.

John raised his glass. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Yeah, we'll make a day of it." Paul was trying not to smile as the wine and the weed reached his head at once, which only resulted in his cheeks looking very full. "Bring the lads."

Bob didn't seem to know which of them to look at, so he addressed his remarks to the door over John's shoulder. "I'd sure appreciate it. That'd be very lucrative for me."

"Think we'll draw a crowd?" said Paul, pretending concern, but he didst protest too much, John thought. Even now, his eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Bob grinned. "Standard practice. Beatles pay double."

Paul burst out laughing, as Bob tried to insist he wasn't kidding, and John realized he hadn't spoken more than three words in the last fifteen minutes. Paul, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble at all regaling Bob with tales of life on the road, the latest on Jane and the art world, generally charming the pants off Dylan, a sitting duck. His diction was perfect, just the tiniest slur from the smoke and drink, but his voice was otherwise clear. Symptom-free, in other words. He hadn't so much as sniffled since they walked in, didn't even cough from the smoke. It was, admittedly, a bit of a let-down; John had gone to all this trouble. But he was too pleasantly buzzed to care.

A short while later, though, Paul blinked as though someone had shone a bright light in his eyes, sudden and harsh. He pressed a thumb to the corner of his eye, then rubbed gingerly at the bridge of his nose, all the while looking like something was irritating him to tears. John barely turned his head, just enough to watch intently as Paul's nostrils started to flare and his lips pursed together. There was a moment where John thought surely, surely...but it passed, leaving Paul to slowly drop his hand, blinking as he exhaled.

Bob seemed to find it more comfortable to wander around the room as he spoke, which meant he wasn't keeping too close an eye on them. John took advantage of their relative privacy to nudge Paul with a quiet, "You okay?"

It took Paul a moment to latch on to what John had asked, but he nodded. "Eyes are...dry," he whispered, with a little smile that was probably supposed to be conspiratorial: small price to pay to get stoned, ooh, aren't we naughty. John was feeling indulgent, so he returned the smile and didn't pry.

But no sooner did Paul's smile fade than his lashes were fluttering again (and Christ alive, it was a wonder they didn't blow the loose papers off the coffee table), and he was clumsily pressing a knuckle against the side of his nose. Lucky, true to his namesake, once again hadn't let John down. He glanced over to see if Bob was paying attention, but he was meticulously looking through the papers strewn around the piano. John turned over a few sheets, pretending to help him look for what he was missing.

A minute later, Paul drew a shallow breath, almost silent, and John gave up pretending. Paul had stuck a fist over his mouth, and he could barely keep his eyes open. More than once, John watched him deflate with relief, then re-tense as the breath he was fighting got hold of him again.

"It's okay, you know," John said softly.

Paul's watery eyes flashed open, and he looked like he wanted very badly to say something, but instead, he ducked forward into his hand with a barely audible "ht'mph!"

It hurt John's head just to watch. He looked around for tissues and, finding none, was sorely tempted to offer Paul the lyrics of Don't Think Twice, It's All Right on which to blow his nose. But Paul seemed to recover without help. He blinked his eyes open, wearing a fuzzy smile and a furious blush. "Oh, dear," he murmured, as much to John as to himself, as if it were a big joke.

John bit his tongue to avoid smiling. He silently offered his own handkerchief, cleaned and pressed for just such an occasion. Paul looked mortified. He refused it with a quick shake of his head and an open hand, but he hung back a bit, as if to say, Not yet, anyway.

"You just gonna sit there lookin' at us, or are you gonna play something?"

Both of their heads turned sharply when Bob spoke. "I'll, uh." Paul's voice was rough. He coughed to clear his throat. "I'll play, yeah." As he turned to face the upright piano, he rubbed fretfully at his nose, a gesture that probably looked like thoughtfulness or nerves to Bob. Paul's fingers hovered over the keys, and he took a deep breath--John waited, rapt--but he blew it out again and began to play.

It was a clanging, shambling tune in a minor key. One of Dylan's own, Ballad of a Thin Man. John couldn't help but chuckle. Ever the star pupil, was Paul. It had exactly the desired effect; Bob was speechless with awe, and he kept touching his cheeks, running his hands up through his hair. "Wow," he breathed, "hey, that ain't bad."

"You can hire him by the hour," John said quietly. "Very reasonable rates."

"You walk into the room," Paul began to recite, in the most generous interpretation of Dylan's singing voice John had ever heard, "with your pencil in your hand/ You see..." He stopped. For a moment, he was still, then he raised his left hand to his face. "Hang on."

"It's the same, with G in the bass," Bob quickly offered. "Don't stop, man, that was incredible..."

Paul shook his head faintly--It's not that--and flung a sleeve across his face. "--nkgxt'chew!"

"Bless you," Bob said, sounding half automatic, but John knew better. Paul was already twitching with quick, irregular breaths, wanting another..."hhah'TChoo!" Muffled into his sleeve, but louder than the last: they were getting too strong to hold back.

Bob blessed Paul again with double the enthusiasm, drowning out John's rollicking Cockney "God blessus, every one!"

Paul gave a short groan. "'Scuse me." Even before he lifted his arm away, John saw that Paul's ears had gone flaming pink. But with his whole face in view, flushed strawberry rose and smiling bashfully, John felt his pulse spike. Oh, dear, indeed.

Before John or Bob could say anything else, Paul stood from the bench, scrubbing at his eyes and nose. "God, um. I yield my time to the gentleman from New York..."

"Minnesota," said Bob.

"...Minnesota. snff! I don't--" Paul's breath caught, and he stumbled through his words with a kind of cough-laugh, "...don't think this song agrees with me."

"Don't injure yourself, man." Bob shut the lid of the piano with a distant metallic thrum of strings. "I don't like it either."

Paul laughed politely, but his expression was strained. As he sat down, he kept one hand pressed against his nose, and his eyes darted around the room. John, watching silently from the floor, could only imagine one thing he might be looking for.

They didn't see it at first; they heard it. Little pitter-patter feet padding down the hall, then a squeak and a meow.

Paul whipped around, wide-eyed, at the sound, just in time to see Lucky spring up to the top of the sofa. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he breathed as comprehension dawned, his face almost expressionless with disbelief.

Bob didn't wait for Lucky to approach him this time, electing instead to scoop him up under the front legs, and held him on his lap.

Paul made a sound that married a cough, a laugh, and a groan of disgust, then cupped a hand over his mouth and nose. It unnerved John slightly that he was smiling through all of this. And it wasn't his ordinary nervous smile, the product of embarrassment boiling over; it looked like barely contained rage. "Think we've found our culprit," Paul managed hoarsely.

"We call him Lucky," Bob supplied, blissfully ignorant of what Paul was trying to communicate. But when Paul gave a ragged gasp and let out three desperate sneezes into his sleeve, the lights flicked on. "Are you allergic to cats?" Bob asked, with such surprise and candor that it almost made John sick.

"Bingo," Paul snuffled, with an attempt at a laugh.

"Well, shit, man, why didn't..." Bob rose at once from the sofa, arms full of Lucky, going on about how no one had bothered to tell him. He opened the door and tossed Lucky into the hall, slapping cat hair from his palms.

"You sadist bastard."

John turned. Paul was glaring at him through watering eyes, his cheeks cut with tears. A hint of rash had climbed above his collar. He looked fuming, as well as moments away from another sneeze.

"Surprise." John felt something sink in his chest as he said it, felt his blood run arrestingly cold.

Paul's hand actually shot out toward him then, and John was too petrified to move, but Paul had only reached over to rip John's handkerchief from his breast pocket and clap it to his face before storming away. The bathroom door slammed.

"Man, I'm sorry about that." Bob plodded back over to where John sat, still brushing hair off his gangly limbs. "I'm really sorry. I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me? I could've locked the bedroom window or somethin', he just comes and goes whenever he wants."

John didn't answer, didn't have one, which was just as well. "Hey, where's Paul?" Bob went on. "Startin' to worry me. Is he gonna be all right?"

John's stomach flip-flopped at that. "'Course he's going to be all right," he snapped. "It's a cat allergy, not the bleedin' Black Death."

"Well, I'm just sayin'..."

"I'll go and check on him," John said, low, and left without looking at Bob. This was...not up there with his best ideas. All he could do now, though, was to clean up the fallout.

If he had any doubts as to where the bathroom was, the sound of running water and occasional violent sneezing soon led him to the door. He heaved a sigh--God, he was an idiot--and knocked. "Hey."

His only answer was the sound of water splashing, so he opened the door. Paul was dousing his face with cold water in the sink. He hadn't heard him. John cleared his throat. "Just...came to see if you were all right."

Paul started, then frowned when he saw John. "Yeah," he scoffed, "I bet you did." He dried his face on the hem of his shirt, as if he didn't trust the towels to be free from cat hair. His breathing was a bit coarse; he'd sniff harshly and pant through his mouth. It sounded awful.

John cast his eyes down. "Look, I'm--"

"Shut the damn door."

John only hesitated a moment before obeying. He'd expected to be shoved away, perhaps literally. This was a step in the right direction--so he hoped. He swallowed. "Paul."

"I fucking knew it." Paul jabbed a finger at him accusingly, and this time his red eyes and nose only made him look more imposing. "It was always that bloody cat, wasn't it? It..." He hit a sharp snag and turned away, his face buried in John's handkerchief, with a shivering gasp. He trembled on the edge of a sneeze that wouldn't come, and wouldn't come, and finally retreated, making him growl in frustration. His back still to John, he blew his nose with force, a surprisingly commanding sound, before finally turning around. "I hope you're pleased with yourself." His faint smile was back, and without a hint of mirth. "You're hysterical, you know that? 'Oh, it must be grass! Oh, it must be me!' Fucking wish it were! hh-- ahhh... haht'TCHshew!"

It wasn't particularly sudden or loud, but John still jumped. "Fuck, I'm...I know. I'm sorry."

"I wish--" Paul coughed, "I wish I were allergic to you, maybe then you'd stay the hell away from me." He wasn't even looking at John anymore. His breath was already getting away from him again, building and building, filling his lungs in preparation for a sneeze...only to disappear at the last second. "Ugh, God, fuck me," Paul groaned, bracing his hands on the sink.

For once in John's sorry life, his mind wasn't on sex. He didn't even think anything untoward when Paul said it. But it would've been impossible not to notice that Paul was visibly, eye-wateringly hard in his cords.

John immediately started to sweat. Grass and wine were a famously toxic combination when it came to Paul; only rock-and-roll made for a better aphrodisiac. But it wasn't just that. He was blushing again, badly, coloring his neck so the rash didn't even show. He was humiliated, and for some reason, wildly turned on.

...He was getting off on this. Christ on the cross.

John took a deep, careful breath. "Do you want me to leave? Or is there...something I can help you with?"

Paul huffed angrily and pawed at his nose. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do, though," said John, treading lightly--lightly as a cat. It was no wonder he was angry. He knew Paul. The only thing he hated more than being teased in public was how riled up it got him. Add this particular kink into the mix, and...well. Recipe for disaster, no doubt about it, but an exciting one.

Paul turned fully away from John at that--at first to be brusque, but then out of necessity. "hh...! ht'tch! hdt'mph! Jesus," he sighed as he let his breath out.

"Bless you," John said softly, and when Paul seemed to suppress a shudder, he added, "Tell me I'm wrong."

Paul stayed leaning on the sink, saying nothing, sniffling wetly.

All right, then. "Come on," John said. "I'm taking you home." He started to turn the doorknob.

"Wait, I can..."

John spun around when he felt Paul's hand on his shoulder. His nose was still shrouded in John's handkerchief, but his eyes were strangely wide and hopeful. "I can stay awhile," he said.

John's heart swelled, and so did his cock. That's what it took to please Paul? Public humiliation on his own terms? It was deliciously tempting; hell, maybe they could turn the lights off, unzip, and initiate Dylan into the band. But it had started as a bad idea, and it was still a bad idea. John wasn't prepared to deal with the National Health if Paul went asthmatic, and he wasn't set up to get better as long as they stayed here. "No. You're coming home with me."

Paul raised his eyebrows. "Think you can make me?"

John grabbed Paul's face and kissed him hard, pulling their bodies together.

Paul whined, greedily kissing back, but after just a few moments, he pushed off John's chest and tore his mouth away, breathing heavily. "Can't breathe through my nose," he explained, panting, his cheeks lifting with a smile. A real one this time.

It was John's turn to blush. "Right."

"And you don't deserve it, frankly."

John laughed and shook his head. "I know." This man was going to kill him. That, he deserved. He held the door open, and together, they stepped back into Dylan's flat.

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charlotteswebbbbb · 2 months ago

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What's the vibe #76

*ph Kendall Bessent for Topicals

News:

On Friday, Kendrick Lamar released a surprise album titled GMX and it's a fun smooth album.

He loves ERL, wearing their custom belt on his album cover and announcement video...but squabble up is not that video and the fashion, set design and concept is also excellent.

youtube

The UK government is set to vote on the Assisted Dying bill which will affect when terminally ill patients in England & Wales choose to end their life. There's obvious restrictions and rules but we'll await to see how the MPs vote on the 29th November. How will death culture change in UK if it's more open and you can choose your end?

So these tariffs eh?

"In a post on his social media site (Truth Social) on Monday evening in the US, Trump said he would impose 25 per cent tariffs on Canada and Mexico on his first day in office as well as an additional 10 per cent tariff on China." - from the Financial Times

So does this mean the end of SSense? And it's cheap sales? The Canadian retailer might have to change strategy or open a US office I think....

Is Ireland so hot right now?

It's hot but according to the tourism board, visitors are down in all markets (accom, food, entertainment etc) and all regions. even the food and drink sector received 68% less customers this summer. Dublin's not suffering as much as other regions but that may be the capital city effect. Yet Ireland has some serious social capital right now, between Ayo Edebiri, Paul Mescal, Fontaines DC, Enya, that Kneecap film that came out this year as well...and now historic shoe gaze band My Bloody Valentine are coming back to play a (I'm going to assume because Kevin Shields et co never really say much) one off Ireland gig next year at the 3arena in Dublin. Will we get a new album? I mean we got a new The Cure album this year and it went #1 in the UK, their first in 32 years.

Saint Laurent directed by Nadia Lee Cohen! There are more videos in the same thing with cult stars like John Waters.

youtube

Brand of the week:

I know we all know about Laneige but do we know they do a few customisation moments in their Korean shops? The most popular product, the Lip Sleep Mask, can be customised - also it's so funny this week it's been dupe-ified by a British budget goods shop.

You can choose 2 colours out of 10 and there are 45 different combinations with instant manufacturing and "exclusive packaging". Who knows. I think the most important thing is that people get excited about being able to do something custom, something unique which is affordable (£19 or 34,000 KRW) when you're in a foreign country. It's the build-a-bear effect, the customisation effect...like why else do people buy those Officine Universelle Buly combs when you can buy a comb at a regular price?

youtube

You can also create custom foundation also at the same shop for £34 or 60,000 KRW. People love the theatre of a machine doing something to save time or get more accuracy. There's always this human element also that maybe wouldn't be allowed if it was something like AI.

youtube

Clowning Around:

I've been thinking about clowns since last year and our capacities to laugh and smile during the hardest of times. In terms of media, we've had Joker 2 which was highly anticipated and didn't do as well as they thought. I think people weren't really keen on that musical? Lady Gaga made a companion album named Harlequinn where she learned how to sing not as perfect.

Aside from this, these Marni shows from this season FW24, show clownery and childish freedom is afoot. We see a formalised, white tie version of these in the SS25 collection (which is more about...Alice in Wonderland which you guessed it has a character who basically plays the jester).

Of course, designers like Walter Van Beirendonck will go full into it. For the SS25 show, Walter Van Beirendonck presented I Have Seen The Future...with hats designed by Stephen Jones.

Amazing DJ and producer Marie Davidson has titled her new album "City of Clowns". In DJ Mag: “Most people have a clown inside of them,” Davidson said. “Some are funny, some are shy, some are twisted, some are dark. The clown is the part of us that is dying to be seen, for better or for worse.”

I've also been listening to this podcast Middlebrow, which is okay. It's just two Millennial American guys having a conversation about their taste and what they did or read. It's interesting in a way that they have an understanding on what Gen Z like or how it's connected to the culture. It's not rigid like you're reading Bloomberg or even Throwing Fits. Like they're not putting on a costume like TF or even BBSP - they just seem chill.

youtube

For example, they talk about a band called The Garden which also fits into this clown-talk. The Garden are an experimental rock band formed in 2011, in Orange County by twin brothers. Their look involves jesters, goth-like face paint but also there's this clownery related.

youtube

This article mentions Chappell Roan but I don't think this is exactly what she's trying to do. Her beauty looks are based in drag, and I don't think today that drag is the punchline of the joke, or it can be but there's also the more public face of it which is elevated. This could also be due to RuPaul's Drag Race.

Speaking of the middle...

The middle standard brands are being squeezed right now in the Supermarket. This Bloomberg report is American but could be true for the UK, it's either budget or *premium*.

On one hand, people still want aspiration, they want quality, they want symbolism (see last week's Next venturing into contemporary brands).

Hair's Going Big:

There's an interesting article on the FT at the moment about how hairbrushes are going big. People love the scalp analysis, hair as the foundation to the face is going big. I mean, the personalised combs said it all, the success of many specialised hair brands says a lot. How can one have Beyonce and Rihanna competing in the same market and both popular?

"The humble (usually boar) bristle brush is turning heads again. Brushes have been a major growth category globally since 2020 and the market is expected to almost double to $8.3bn by 2033. As self-care sales morphed into the “skinification” of hair, with interest in everything from scalp health to next-level conditioning (see the recent glass-hair obsession), consumers have more choice and, thanks to social media, more knowledge than before."

and

"Liberty has seen a 200 per cent growth in its hairbrush business from 2023 to 2024, “with brands like La Bonne Brosse at the forefront of this shift”, says head of beauty Natalie Guselli. “These brushes are more than tools, they’re investments in craftsmanship and longevity.”

Sexy and uncomfortable?

"For fashion trend forecaster J’Nae Phillips, this resurgence speaks to the fast-spreading rejection of conformity, reflecting a broader movement “favouring grotesque, exaggerated forms that blur the lines between function and art”. Phillips predicts that five-finger shoes, such as the Vibram, are set to become the next cult favourite, as the commercial market increasingly embraces innovative and boundary-defying design." - from Vogue Business article by Bronwen Morris.

The article is a bit slow in terms of where it's at, but maybe I'm also fast and can see the Vibram happening now and you're searching for the warped thing that's coming next?

Cool London Brand:

Paris Farzaneh is a London based brand, inspired by the designers Iranian heritage through design motifs, British DIY culture of the 90s and utilitarian shapes . The brand shows away from the fashion cycle, has a diffusion line called Blind Foresight, but today, I thought this jacket looked amazing. Currently collaborating with Hoka on footwear btw.

#what's the vibe #vibe #parsed #Youtube

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superblysubpar · 1 year ago

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JELLY JELLY JELLY.

I love these little glimpses into their past. I need to know all the details of what happened. I hate and love Eddie. I hate and love Steve. I love reader's friendship with Argyle and her relationship with Hop. You just have turned these beautiful characters into your own with this universe yet it feels like the exact people from the show. You write them so true to how they are originally, but with new depth and new stories and I can't wait to keep watching it all unfold 💛

A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below.

Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning.

That mash game i mentioned? Yeah up to 55 kids. Wait no, 56. And we'll absolutely be getting a trampoline for our shack 💛

The disc spins, and you both listen, the scent of lilacs wafting in on the breeze, and fireflies painting the sky with their gentle glow. Time passes in the slow way it only does for kids on a cool summer night.

"TIME PASSES IN THE SLOW WAY IT ONLY DOES FOR KIDS ON A COOL SUMMER NIGHT."

Excuse me?! Helllooo this makes me sit back in my seat every time I read it and close my eyes. 💛

You: Wrong number

Ha! I snorted. Eddie probably looked at it and rolled his eyes.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower.

The world is full of cliches. Many become so ingrained that we accept them as unwavering truths. Every cloud has a silver lining. Don’t judge a book by its cover. Actions speak louder than words. A rotten apple will spoil the bunch. Don’t spit into the wind. Well, that last one is just good advice, but there is one that has stuck with you. Love what you do, and you’ll never work a day in your life. Music is your deity, and working at Stax is where you worship at its altar, spreading the Gospel of John, Paul, George, and Ringo. It’s a place where your lifelong obsession is not only validated, it’s celebrated. Your journey leading up to this point feels like destiny, like the universe conspired to harmonize your two greatest loves—the lyrical power of words and the soul-stirring magic of music. Each day within these walls is a new chord, a different tempo, and you revel in the ever-changing rhythm of your life. One spent intertwined with the music and the people that create it. The magazine's pages are your stage, your canvas, and with every keystroke, you paint the stories of the music, offering them to those who care to listen.

I mean I really truly do not have the words to describe how much I love this passage. I want it typed out and hanging on my wall. It is SO beautiful 💛💛💛💛

Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out.

This made me fall desperately head over heels in love with reader who is me, but well, you know what I mean. I love her...me...us? 💛💛

He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

I told you already, but you're absolutely my Hop 💛

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

I love Argyle in this SO much 💛 I feel like you captured his voice perfectly and I'm glad we're seeing him have such a big part in readers life instead of *just* a side character 💛💛💛

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.”

*low and slow whistle* damn.

A sliver of gold from the streetlights outside pierces the tiny gap in the curtains. You’ve been lying on your side staring so long that you can see its warm hue behind closed lids whenever you start to drift. You burrow your arm deeper beneath your pillows while your feet shuffle, searching for a cool spot on the sheets. Steve’s breathing hasn’t changed behind you. He’s having the same trouble falling asleep. He turns over, his weight rocking the mattress. He’s much closer now. You can feel the comforting warmth from his chest, filling the space between him and your back.

You know how I feel about this scene. I just fuuuuccccck. Can feel the tension through your words right here. Feel the emotions of reader just brewing under the surface during the smut.

Torn | Song 2 | Masterlist

Twelve years after Eddie Munson broke your heart for a life on the road with nothing but a mixtape as a goodbye, you finally feel like you have two feet on the ground. Engaged to Steve Harrington with the career of your dreams it feels like you’re going to have your happily ever after, but what happens when the boy that broke your heart comes back as a man with a revelation that changes everything?

TW: Femreader, Love🔺️, Smut, Mentions of DV, 18+ No minors WC:6558 beta'd by @superblysubpar

Plink.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

The old wooden frame of your window groans against the track, burdened with too many layers of paint to make the slide smooth. The swirls of creamy pinks and oranges have faded hours ago into the star-lit summer sky. The boy is below, standing in your backyard, fist full of pea gravel taken from a neighbor's garden. A smile twisting his lips lifts his cheeks, putting dimples on full display as he looks up at you from the darkness below. You raise a finger, signaling for him to wait before you turn away. Tossing a few things in your empty backpack, you take a pillow from your bed, and your comforter is wrestled free from the mattress. With careful footsteps, you creep down the stairs, stopping in the kitchen. The light from the fridge casts a triangle across the floor as you take a few Capri Suns to add to your bag. Leaving through the slider, the end of your blanket trails behind you through the grass that was trimmed that morning. You slip off your flip-flops, leaving them beside a pair of larger, well-worn sneakers with a chain wallet tucked inside the right shoe. Eddie bounces on the trampoline, his sock-covered feet launching him into the air, arms stretched for balance. You toss everything on before climbing on with him. With a final bounce, he lands on his butt beside you, grinning.

“I got it,” you tell him, tossing the pillow behind you.

“Nah-uh.”

"My dad took me to Tower this afternoon." Rummaging in your pack, you pull out a Discman and over-the-ear headphones with the cord in a tangled mess. "I could only get two. I had to choose between Rage," you begin, ticking off album titles on your fingers, “Soundgarden, STP, and Pearl Jam.”

“And?”

Taking out the CDs, you press them against his chest, letting go as soon as his fingers go around them. His brown eyes widen as he examines what’s in his hands as you pick apart the knotted cord.

“Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop AND Down on the Upside? You haven’t even opened this one.” He holds up the Soundgarden CD before using his teeth to rip open the cellophane covering the plastic case.

“I waited for you.” You smile.

His face softens. “You’re a doll.”

He lies back, his head nestling into your pillow, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the sky. After putting the CD into the player, you follow him, pulling the comforter over you both and resting your head on his bicep. The headphone speakers are flipped out, tucked between you, as Chris Cornell's melancholic voice begins to seep into your ears, velvety and dark like the night itself.

"Listen to this transition," he insists, his voice filled with the same awe that it always does when he talks about music, "The shift from acoustic to electric guitar is seamless."

“I wish I could hear it the way you do.”

As you gaze skyward, a slender branch sways in perfect rhythm with the chords, green leaves fluttering with the bass. The stars multiply and shimmer as if they’re caught up in the flow of the song.

“You do,” he says, his head turning toward you, “You’re the only one I know who loves it as much as I do.” He studies your face, his eyes locking with yours. The music building until it’s too intense, and he looks away. “It’s lyrics that hook you. You’ve always got so many words floating around in that big brain of yours.”

“Eddie?”

“Hmm?” He answers, eyes closed.

“Are they fighting again?”

He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone knows—an ugly secret festering on an otherwise picture-perfect street. No one wants to get their hands dirty by getting involved.

“Why won’t she leave him?” A simple question in a world of black and white.

“I want her to,” his adams apple bobs as he swallows, “She says she loves him.”

“Just stay here with me tonight, okay?” Rolling to your side, you wrap your hand across his chest, offering him the only protection that you can.

“Yeah, okay.”

When you wake the following morning, the songs and memories you were reacquainted with last night have faded to a dull throb–much like the martinis. But remnants of their lyrics persist, crawling under your skin, irritating like an itch, a tune hummed without the words to accompany it. Your phone’s screen lights up with an incoming text, the short burst of vibration sending it skittering across the surface of your nightstand. It takes a moment for your bleary eyes to focus on the notification on your lock screen.

Unknown: I admit last night could have gone better. Let me make it up to you. Coffee?

After tapping in your passcode, you open the message app to reply.

You: Wrong number

Darkening your screen, you let your phone slip from your hand onto the bed beside you. With a sigh, you lean back, staring at the ceiling, seeking answers that remain elusive. The scent of brewing dark roast and toasting bagels rises up the stairs with the sounds of Steve moving around the kitchen. A cup of coffee (or five) and a shower is what you need to wash away the past and leave it firmly where it belongs– in your rearview.

It's the bottom of your second cup when Steve into your massive walk-in closet with a towel wrapped around his waist, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp, the freckled skin of his chest looking golden in the soft glow of the elegant pendant lights.

“Is that what you're wearing to work?” He asks.

“Um, yeah.” You finish buckling the strap of your chunky mary-janes. “Something wrong with it?” you ask, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, dark distressed jeans and a band tee recut into a fitted v-neck.

“Of course not,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair before sitting down heavily on the leather bench. His shoulders slump as he looks across to the cherry built-in shelves holding the rows of tailored suits hung by progression of color. “You always look beautiful.”

Taking your watch from the marble top of the large center island, you wander over to where he’s seated. He hooks a finger into one of the large holes in your jeans, tugging you over to stand between his legs, his big hands wrapping around the backs of your thighs.

“Guess I’m just missing the days of wearing jeans and a jersey to work,” he says, his smile not smoothing the faint crease in his brows.

“You traded that in for a car service and a big fat paycheck,” you point out, kissing the top of his head and moving back to your side of the closet to select a blazer.

“How else am I going to keep spoiling you?” He stands, dropping the towel and picking up the black Tom Ford boxer briefs he set out before his shower.

“Steve, I don’t need all of this,” your hand sweeps in the air, gesturing to the lit shelves holding more clothes and shoes than you could ever need. “Just take me to a concert every once in a while.” Your voice trails off as notification chimes on your phone.

Unknown: Nice try, doll. Robin gave me your number.

“Can you imagine if we were still in that cramped apartment in Lincoln Park?” He scoffs, pulling on a light gray pair of suit pants. “We were tripping over all our stuff.”

Steve found the three-bedroom, three-bath brownstone on a tree-lined street in the ritzy Gold Coast neighborhood just after he got promoted from Metro, marking the beginning of his rise up the ranks in Second City Media. He spent a year and a chunk of his trust fund on a meticulous renovation before the two of you moved in. It is beautiful—large air rooms with lofty ceilings adorned with pristine white crown molding and wainscotting throughout, giving a modern but classic feel. Living with so much space is lavish in a city of this size. But you would be just as happy back on that ratty couch in Lincoln Park, drinking beer straight from the bottle and eating pizza without the fuss of plates, working on your laptop while he watched a Cubs game. Steve is driven–determined to be a success, and he is, but with the money came the stress. And it’s taking a toll.

Your finger hovers over the block button, but you press add to contacts instead. “Hey,” you change the subject, slipping your phone into your jacket pocket, “Did you ever look into that sailing charter you wanted to book out at the lake? We could do that this weekend?”

“I wish I could, Ace. I’ve got those weekend meetings about the streaming radio we're trying to launch. Pick out a tie for me?” He asks, pulling off a starched black button-up from its hanger.

“Sure.” You walk over and spin the rack holding up dozens of ties on shiny brass hooks.

“What do you have going on today?” The well-defined muscles of his sculpted shoulders, earned from never skipping a day at the gym, flex before disappearing into his shirt sleeves.

“Not a lot.” You pull the silky slip of deep maroon fabric off its hanger. “Lola is put to bed for this year. I just have an album review to finish up and a meeting with my editor today. Maybe a series on the Fall tours?” You propose, mostly to yourself, as you bring him his tie.

“Maroon, huh?” One brow raises with the question, “I would have picked black.”

“I know.” The corner of your lips turn up in a sly smile before you rise to your toes and place a kiss on his mouth, “I’m gonna go.”

“You want my driver to drop you off?” He asks, looking in the mirror and adjusting his tie.

“Nah, I’ll drive myself. Argyle and I are going to the Subterranean for drinks. Santigold is performing. Do you want to come?” You throw out, picking up your ancient army green messenger bag you can’t bear to part with, straining with the fullness of your laptop and notes.

“I’ll pass. Not really my scene.” As he fastens his gold cufflinks, they catch the gleaming light.

“You never come to shows with me,” you sigh.

“I know, I know. I’ll try and catch the next one,” he says, sliding his feet into shiny Italian leather shoes. “I’m meeting Robin for lunch. You want to join us?”

“No. I’ll let you have your girl time.” You blow him a kiss before heading out the door.

“See you tonight, okay?”

“Love you. See you tonight,” he calls after you.

Passing through rooms decorated with rich creams and calming moss greens, you yell over your shoulder, “Tell Robin I said we don’t have any more room for paintings of flowers that look like vaginas.”

“They’re a good investment,” his voice fades as you jog down your stairs, grabbing your keys from the stained-glass bowl on the table beside the door, ignoring the buzz coming from your pocket.

Without taking your eyes off your laptop screen, you reach for your coffee mug only to knock over the tittering tower of CDs that you had stacked on the corner of your cluttered desk. The plastic jewel cases meet the cement floor with a shattering crash, the noise echoing off the walls of the open industrial space that houses the offices for Stax Magazine in the heart of Fulton Market District. Clapping comes from other desks as you chase the discs rolling on their sides in all directions. Pausing, you bend into a dramatic curtsey, earning chuckles as the applause dies out. The perpetual chaos of your desk has become an ongoing punchline in the office banter. Your phone begins to ring at the same time an IM pops on your screen - both from your editor, the enigmatic J. Hopper.

“Art Garfunkel’s house of pizza,” you say by way of greeting, trying to get the CDs back in their cases and toppling a pile of mail in the process.

“Where are you? Why aren’t you here? We had a meeting at 2,” comes the gruff voice of a man who's clearly not amused.

“It’s only one forty,” you reply.

“Get your ass in here now,” he yells, disconnecting.

Hopper's bark has always been more bluster than bite. The towering, older man has been a fixture in this building since its days as a "hard-hitting" newspaper. While the city has evolved and transformed, Hopper and this old brick building have remained resolute, like an immovable rock in the ever-shifting stream of time. He possesses zero patience, holds a disdain for people, and dismisses any music created after 1978. You love him as much as your own father. He offered you a position fresh out of college when other magazines wouldn’t take a chance. He's pulled out your best work, often sending you back to your desk like a pouting child, making you the writer you are today. The wisdom he’s imparted is beyond the reach of any professor or workshop, and for that, you’ll always be grateful.

With a gentle rap of your knuckles against the frosted glass, you step into Hopper's office. He's seated behind a substantial oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paperwork. A hint of cigar lingers in the air, though you've never been able to catch him smoking. He remains engrossed, squinting at his desktop screen with a furrowed brow. Settling into one of the vintage leather club chairs, you wait for his acknowledgment, your gaze drifting across the framed magazine covers and photographs lining the walls. One of a much younger Hopper clad in a tattered flak jacket catches your eyes. His face smeared with dirt and grit, standing amidst the ruins of a war-torn Kosovo street, a city reduced to chaos.

"Where’s my album write-up?" He asks without looking up.

"I emailed it to you before lunch," you reply, confirming on your phone.

He pushes back from his desk, propping up his feet on the edge, and offers you a soft smile from under the bushy mustache covering his lip, "How are you, kid? Everything okay? Harrington treating you, right?"

"Of course, Hop. He knows he'd have to answer to you otherwise. What about you?" You ask, leaning forward, "Is Joyce looking after you? Making sure you're watching that cholesterol?"

"Yup, she's got me eating all these organic vegetables, no booze, no smokes. Kinda takes all the fun outta life." He laces his hands behind his head, stretching out his back.

"Oh yeah, does that include that bottle hootch you got stowed in your bottom drawer?"

He sits up with a quick move, pointing his finger in your direction. "You don't know anything about that. Are we clear?"

The only one who can scare Hopper is Hopper's wife.

"I don't know. What are you going to do if I give Joyce a call? Seems to me that's something she'd want to know," you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You'd be out on that sidewalk before you hung up the call. Don't test me." He shakes a finger at you, "Now, what are you pitching me?"

"Well, I'm going to a club tonight, so I'll have a live performance review. And I was thinking of a piece on the bands touring this Fall. Kind of like a road map that the readership could follow and hit all the good shows."

"Those sound good, kid, but I got a feature for you to cover." He leans forward, narrowing his eyes, "You know this Eddie Munson character?"

The blood drains from your face. "No. Not-not really," you stammer, "we're from the same town, but I haven't seen him in years."

"Well, it's time to get reacquainted. I want a series chronicling the opening of CursedSound Recordings, and I want you to write it."

A featured series is something that other journalists fight over, and usually, you'd jump at the chance, but not this time. Not this series. Not Eddie Muson.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you say, looking down at your lap.

“You don’t think–”

“Give it to Miles.”

“I’m giving it to you. Morales is busy with–”

“I don’t want it,” the words burst out of your mouth before you think better of it. Less than twenty-four hours after seeing Eddie, your world is spinning out of control.

Hopper's face turns to steel as he plucks the pen from behind his ear and throws it down on the desk. “I think that you’ve forgotten how this works. I give you an assignment. You write it.”

Your lips part before the protest in your brain is fully formed.

“If you’re about to tell me no again, it better be followed by a damn good reason.”

His eyes are locked on yours while he waits for a response, one brow raised in challenge.

“Listen, kid,” he picks up a stack of papers, shuffling through them as he talks, “I’ve looked into this Munson character. He has a good reputation in L.A. His name is in the credits for over half the multi-platinum releases in the last five years. And word is, his studio is booked out with big names for a year in advance.” He pauses for a moment to be sure his words sink in. “Establishing a good relationship with him is in the magazine's best interests. And what's good for the magazine is good for you. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes, Hop,” he answers for you when you remain quiet.

“Yes, Hop,” you repeat.

“Good,” he says, lacing his fingers together. "The printed word isn’t worth what it used to be. Everything's gone digital, the never-ending twenty-four-hour news cycle. The competition's cut-throat out there. Trust me, our friends over at Spectrum would eat this up for Chicago Lifestyles. Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I thought you’d be all over this. Especially since it was proposed by corporate. I figured you went around me and pitched it to Harrington directly.��

The mention of Steve’s name sets your teeth on edge. He hadn't breathed a word about this assignment earlier, and now he's reaching out to Hopper, painting a picture as if you're disrespecting your editor and exploiting your personal connections to secure a story.

“I would never do that,” you shake your head.

"Alright then. Call Byers at Metro," Hopper instructs, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest. "Bring him with you. His assignment is just wrapping up."

You nod, your blood boiling and your mind racing. Taking a deep breath to compose yourself, you finally reply with an outward calm, "Okay."

Hopper's eyes remained fixed on you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Now, why are you still here wasting my time? Get out."

You don’t need any more prompting. Swiftly, you rise from your seat and make your way out of Hopper's office, formulating plans to murder your fiancé.

With a heavy sigh, you sit back down at your desk. The Stax logo bounces off the edges of your laptop screen. Your phone lights up with a photo of Steve. You let it ring a few times before sending it to voicemail. A few colleagues linger nearby, mugs in hand, their idle chatter blending with the hum of printers and the rhythmic clacking of keyboards. Your to-do list sits on your desk with strike-throughs on only half the tasks, but the priority of the ones remaining isn’t enough to capture your attention.

Reaching down, you tug at the handle of your tightly packed bottom desk drawer. It sticks, protesting the overload. The bright yellow color of the Sony Sports Walkman stands out from among the other clutter. You hesitate when reaching for it, the beginnings of the ache already tightening your chest. But you can’t resist, your hand closes around it, pulling it and the headphones coiled around out from under a pile of old concert passes attached to lanyards.

Swiveling your chair away from the desk, you face the windows and slip the headphones onto your ears. A gentle press of your thumb produces a satisfying click, and a soft crackling sound fills your ears as the capstans start to whir.

The crystal blue of the cassette is dulled behind the transparent black window, but you can still make out the handwriting on the yellowed label.

For when you miss me.

“Did you ever listen?”

Everyday.

A bird's eye view of the stage is perfectly spaced in your viewfinder, with Santi downstage dominating the mic, her other arm outstretched to the fervent crowd. Your finger clicks the shutter as a text pops on the screen.

Eddie: Seems this city isn’t so big after all.

With a huff, you close the screen, pocketing your phone.

“What’s going on with you?” Argyle shouts over the crowd, handing you back your drink as you both lean over the black-painted railing on the balcony at The Subterranean.

"Nothing," you reply, your gaze returning to the stage where Santigold is Chasing Shadows.

“You’re moody,” he accuses, leaning closer to your ear to be heard over music.

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s true,” he shakes his head. “You’re moody. Moody dick.”

The corners of your lips lift as you roll your eyes.

“This wouldn't have anything to do with mister dark and handsome sound engineer guy from last night, would it?” He probes as someone bumps into you from behind, throwing you off balance.

Your eyes narrow as he steadies you with a hand on your elbow.

“Hey, I know things,” he says, sipping his drink and looking back out over the crowd.

“Oh, yeah?” You ask, turning and leaning on the banister to face him, “What do you know?”

He turns his head toward you, his thoughtful brown eyes connecting with yours. “I know you looked freaked the fuck out when he showed up for drinks and even more so when he said he was staying. And I’ve seen you tell off enough people to know that’s what was going on at the bar when you walked away from him last night,” he says, looking back toward the stage, gesturing with his hands, “Now we're here, with my future baby mama killing it on stage, and you’re sucking all the energy out of the room.”

The song ends with the crowd erupting in applause. “I love you!” Argyle shouts toward the stage with his hands cupped around his mouth as the bass starts back up with the opening of High Priestess. Santi looks up, throwing him a wink, her voice low and fast as the reverb vibrates under your feet.

“Future baby mama?” You laugh.

“Yeah. Do you think you could use your press pass to get us backstage?”

“No. I don’t think you need to add to the population tonight.”

"See, you're no fun,” he complains, sticking out his lower lip, “So you really used to crush on that guy?

Chewing on your lip, you throw him a sideways glance.

“Yeah, you did. You crushed hard,” he laughs, “So, tell me, what happened?”

“I don’t like talking about it,” you say, scrubbing your face.

“Keeping everything all bottled up ain’t good for you, little mama,” he pokes your arm, letting you know he’s not going to drop this, “I’m your boy. If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?”

“Circle of trust,” he says, stirring the air between you with two fingers when you don’t respond.

You lean against the rail, considering. “Alright, but this stays between us,” you threaten him with a pointed finger. His head nods as his fingers slide across his mouth like a zipper.

“There’s not much to tell,” you say, looking down at the sticky floor. “I had a crush, and he didn’t feel the same way.”

“I get it. The fury of a woman scorned. What did you do, go full bunny boiler?”

“No,” you chuckle, “Nothing like that. That part didn’t even really bother me. He was my best friend, my only friend for a long time. I thought there was something between us, that he cared about me. Maybe not the same way I cared about him, but you know, I thought we were close. I must have built it all up in my head because one day, he just takes off.” You swallow the sharp pain pressing into your chest, “He never even said goodbye.”

“Nooo,” Argyle’s eyes widen.

“It broke me,” you admit.

“Harsh,” he agrees, “And he never called you? Or gave you an explanation?”

“Not until yesterday. He asked me to lunch. You know, he actually had the nerve to say that Steve has me on a tight leash.”

“Typical.” He shakes his head, swallowing the last of his drink.

“What do you mean?” You ask, swirling the last of your ice into your watered-down drink.

His face turns serious as he explains, “It’s like surfing. We all want that wave that’s just out of reach. Especially if someone else is riding it.”

“How did you get so wise?” You ask.

“I don’t know. Must be all the weed,” he says with a hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the bar. “Let’s go get another drink.”

“You never told Steve any of this?” He asks as you join the crowd of people that constitutes the line.

“No,” you sigh.

“No?” He repeats in surprise, “This is bad news, man. Why wouldn’t you tell him? What are you going to do, just going to keep it a secret forever?”

“I guess. It doesn’t really have anything to do with him.”

“This is going to get messy.” He shakes his head as you move up in line.

“Well, I’m not real happy with him either right now. He went behind my back to Hopper, deciding that I’m going to cover Eddie’s recording studio's opening. He completely humiliated me in front of my boss. I look totally unprofessional.”

“Well, that's not cool,” Argyle sympathizes as he takes the plastic cup from your hand and tosses it into a trashcan tucked beside the bar.

“No, it was very not cool,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Wait," he looks at you with sudden revelation, “Technically, isn't Steve your boss?"

“That’s not the point–”

“And isn’t your job to write about major happenings in the city, like when fancy L.A. sound guys open up studios?”

“You're not helping, Argyle.”

His hand lands on your head, offering a comforting pat like you're a child before the line begins moving again. "Cheer up, Bernstein," he quips with a grin, "I'll buy the next round."

Your anger hasn’t abated when you walk through the front door of the brownstone. Steve is already in bed, shirtless with the taupe velvet coverlet pulled up to his waist, glasses perched on his nose, not looking up from his laptop as you enter the room.

“Hey, Ace, how was your day? Did you write me–”

“Anything you want to tell me about, Steve?” You ask, your voice already coming out more heated than you intended.

He looks up at you, brows pulling together. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, dropping your bag onto the blue slipper chair in the corner of the room, “Maybe about how you went behind my back?”

"What?” He questions, slamming his laptop shut.

“The story, Steve,” you huff, leaving the room through your closet. You’ve just put your shoes away when he appears in the doorway, padding across the carpet in his bare feet, wearing just his boxers.

“Munson’s opening, that’s what you’re mad about?” He demands.

“You totally blindsided me,” you complain, pulling a hanger off the rod and hanging up your blazer with enough force to have the other clothes swinging. “Why didn’t you say anything this morning?”

“Because I hadn’t thought of it this morning.” His hands run through his hair, tugging in frustration.

“So what, it just came to you in a flash of brilliance?” Popping the button on your jeans, you tug them down your hips, kicking them into the corner instead of putting them in the basket.

“No, it didn’t, and I hate it when you’re sarcastic. Robin wanted to stop by and see his studio. We had lunch nearby,” he informs you, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the gold chain he wears glinting in the low light.

“So the two of you just decided what I was going to be writing? Maybe that’s something you should be discussing with me.” You lay a hand on your chest before pulling your shirt over your head and giving it the same treatment as your jeans. “You know, your fiancée, not some old buddy that sold you weed a few times back in Hawkins.”

“The content Stax puts out is directly under my approval, just like Metro and the Newsdesk and every other division.” His voice, which has been steady and even until now, begins to rise, “I’m not going to call you and ask for permission every time I make a decision. Eddie and I have kept in touch. How do you think we landed that interview with Radiohead last year when they wouldn’t even sit down with Rolling Stone?”

“That’s another thing you kept from me. I had no idea Eddie was your best friend.” Your eyes narrow as your fingers yank at the delicate clasps of your jewelry and watch.

Steve's eyes roll in frustration as he shakes his head. "He's not my best friend. He’s a business contact. I know him through Robin. They were is band together, you know this."

"That feels like a lifetime ago, Steve," you remark, the clinking of your jewelry against the marble island adding a discordant scrape.

"Well, some people aren't embarrassed about where they came from," he accuses.

"I'm not embarrassed," you scoff and begin to pace as if you can outrun his words.

"Oh, please," he says, taking a seat on the bench, his knuckles turning white as he grips the edge, his gaze tracking your restless movements. "You cut off anybody we still know living there. You won't even go to visit your parents. They always come here."

“You never listen to what I’m saying. This has nothing to do with Hawkins or my parents.” You halt your steps, your hand slices through the air, punctuating your statements. “It's about you making me look like a fool in front of Hopper. Like I’m trying to go around him to corporate to get assigned the big stories. Like I’m sleeping with the boss. I’m not ruining my reputation so you can give free advertising to your friends.”

“You're being crazy right now,” he yells, wincing with regret as soon as the words leave his mouth. He stands, moving closer, making an effort to control the tone of his voice, “I gave you this assignment because you know Eddie, and it will make for a better story, not because I’m fucking you. We’ve been together since the day you started at Stax. We’ve been engaged for two years. If anyone was going to think that, they already would’ve.”

Your head shakes, rejecting his rationale. He throws up his hands in frustration. “I can't have a conversation with you when you’re like this.” He starts to walk back toward the bedroom but stops abruptly, spinning on his heel and pointing his finger in your direction. “But I'll tell you one more thing—you are going to write this story.” He waves a hand toward the bathroom. “Now, go wash your face.”

Your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you walk into the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

“Baby.” His breath caresses the spot just behind your ear before the wet press of his lips traces a path along your neck, latching on to the apex when it meets your shoulder. A gentle bite follows the swirl of his tongue as he moves even closer. The rough pads of his fingers glide over your shoulder and down your arm, coaxing the thin strap of your tank with them.

“Please,” he whispers between kisses, his fingers finding their way under the bottom edge of your tank top, the light scrape of his blunt nails against your ribs sending shivers across your skin. Your breathing is picking up, the fire from your argument morphing into a new kind of heat. His hips flex against your ass, his cock hard and ready. When you turn your head, his lips are there, a wet slide over your mouth until they pull back, floating just above you, lingering with a question. And when his hand cups your shoulder, urging your body to turn towards him-–you answer.

The sultry feminine voice drifts from the speakers in your bedroom, her smoky timber weaving through the air like dark tendrils intertwining with the high piano notes. Your hips rise with the flow, a slow, unchanging cadence, the stretch of his cock creating delicious friction against your velvet walls. You move higher until he almost leaves you before you start your descent, the angle finding all the hidden places that light you up beneath your skin.

"M' sorry," he murmurs.

Your eyes flutter open at his words as they carry you away from the depths.

"Hate telling you no." He gazes up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, his hair pushed back from his face, and a flush across his skin.

"I don't wanna talk about it." Your hands cover the ones wrapped around your thighs, guiding them up your body. His warm, rough fingers are eager to map out every contour. Your head falls back when they find their destination, cupping your breasts with a possessive grip.

The song shifts, the new baseline a drawn-out pulse lining up with your movements. The lyrics are raw and a little filthy, fueling the urgency of your rolling hips, your clit grazing the short hairs at his base.

"Don't like telling you what to do," he mumbles even as his hands drop to your hips, attempting to hold you still as he bucks up from underneath. "Just wanna take care of you."

"Steve," his name passes your lips in a low moan as you lean forward, taking his hand from your hips and pressing them into the pillow, "Stop talking."

Sitting up, you shift your position, leaning back, bracing your hands behind yourself on his hairy thighs. You set a new pace, bouncing harder, driving him deeper, taking what you want.

“Jesus, fuck, baby,” he groans, eyes hitting the back of his head while his hands slide across the sheets seeking any purchase as you ride him. The music surges, its tempo rising in perfect sync with the wet intimate sounds of your bodies coming together, the rhythm repeating over and over.

"So close…please," his fingers slip between you, adding pressure to the sensitive bundle of nerves that he finds there, "Need you to cum."

"No," you rasp out breathless, pushing his hand aside, your eyes locked on his as you bring your own fingers to your mouth. With a swirl of your tongue, you coat them with wetness before sliding them down to touch yourself, controlling your own pleasure.

The muscles in his neck strain with effort, his gaze darkening, fixated on you. “Goddam, so sexy like this,” he murmurs.

Your body tightens, taut like a bow-string, the tension building until the crescendo crashes over you. The music washes over your senses as you reach your peak, your legs trembling with the intensity. You push your body further over the edge, succumbing to the euphoria lost in the wave of sensations.

Floating back down, your eyes open to the sight of your ceiling, your body still arched, catching your breath. His fingers tighten on your ribs, reminding you he's there. Sticky wetness dripping between you is evidence that he reached his own climax. His hands gently urge your forward to collapse into his chest.

"Wow, that was…" He strokes the sweat-slicked skin of your back. "I’ve never seen you like that before. What got into you?"

"I think you did," you say, placing a kiss over his heart as your fingers smooth through the hair covering his chest. He chuckles, holding you closer.

The gentle croon of the music fills the quiet space between you as you lie entwined, drawing closer to sleep's embrace. With a fumbling hand, Steve reaches for the remote on his nightstand, silencing the stereo, returning the room to a restful hush. He places a final tender kiss on your temple, his eyes closing as his features turn peaceful. But for you, even in this stillness, another song lingers in your mind, its lyrics echoing like a secret.

For updates follow @tornupdates & turn on the notifications

AN: Thank you for reading and rebloging. Your comments are what keep me at my keyboard plugging away at this story. Please keep sending me your songs and asks! They have inspired so much of what's to come. xoxo- Jelly

#jelly does it again #her smut and angst make me wanna smoke and drink at the same time #eddie munson series #torn series

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johnhardinsawyer · 1 year ago

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Call the Midwives, 2023

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

8 / 27 / 23 – 13th Sunday after Pentecost / Proper 16

Exodus 1:8-22

Romans 12:1-8

“Call the Midwives, 2023”[1]

(There is a Line of Women. . .)

This summer’s big hit at the box office is a little film called The Barbie Movie, which delightfully skewers so many gender stereotypes. For most of the movie, I sat there laughing and thinking, smugly, “Well, I’ve never done that to a woman – never treated a woman that way.” There is one scene, though, that hits a little too close to home for me. All of the Barbies gather together in pairs with all of the Kens and all the Kens – strumming acoustic guitars – sing a song to all the Barbies while staring directly into their eyes. All of a sudden, I saw my college self, strumming my acoustic guitar, and singing a song directly at someone. Why did I subject this certain someone to that? The word “awkward” doesn’t even begin to describe the vibe in that moment.

In today’s reading from Romans, the Apostle Paul reminds us, “. . . I say to everyone among you not to think of yourself more highly than you ought to think.” (Romans 12:3) I’m convinced that, here Paul could very well have written, “Don’t think you’re God’s gift to self-important romantic gestures involving guitar strumming and cheesy songs and direct eye-contact.”

To expand on this idea, recently, my wise friend Britt said, “A woman would never play a twenty-minute guitar solo. That’s something that only men do.” Yes, I know that this is a blanket statement and that there are probably exceptions to this rule, but I have thought about the truth of Britt’s words – and not just when it comes to guitar playing – because I’m convinced that Britt was talking about more than just guitar solos. What Britt said has made me more conscious as I meet with people here in the church and beyond. What is the gender balance, here? Does everyone have a voice? Is anyone dominating the conversation too much? And, yes, I understand that there is some irony at play in this very moment as I – someone who is male, with male characteristics and mannerisms – stands up in front of a group of people to talk for approximately fourteen minutes. Many of the best pastors and preachers I have ever known have been women and I tremble in seeking to follow their example.

I also tremble to tell the story of Shiphrah and Puah, found in today’s reading from the Book of Exodus. It is a story of terror and triumph. This summer, we have been making our way through some of the suggested lectionary passages from the Hebrew Bible – stories of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph – all men. We would be wise, though, to hear the stories of the Bible, listening carefully for the presence and voices of women.

There is a song that comes from the Iona Community in Scotland that gives us a snapshot of the role that women have played in shaping history, going back to the very beginning:

There is a line of women, extending back to Eve, Whose role in shaping history God only could conceive. And though, through endless ages their witness was repressed, God valued and encouraged them through whom the world was blessed. So sing a song of Sarah, to laughter she gave birth, And sing a song of Tamar who stood for women’s worth; And sing a song of Hannah who bargained with her Lord; And sing a song of Mary who bore and bred God’s Word. [2]

Last week, we heard the story of Joseph and his brothers. The story ends with Joseph inviting his brothers and their wives and servants – basically everyone in their huge family – to move down to Egypt where there is food and where Joseph can provide for them. This is what the family does. They move to Egypt and God blesses them. They become prosperous and end up having lots of children. And their children have even more children.

But, as time goes on, a problem arises – a big problem as some of the Egyptians see it: The Children of Israel – also known as “Hebrews” – are quite numerous and will soon outnumber the Egyptians. And, what’s more, a new king has arisen who “[does] not know Joseph.” (Exodus 1:8). All this new king knows is that Joseph’s descendants and extended family are becoming too numerous, and he becomes afraid. And his fear is contagious among the Egyptians. I wish I could say that fear like this – the fear of being outnumbered by a group of people who are different from you – died way back in Bible times, but people in power throughout history have tried to (how shall we say) “manage” racial and ethnic demographics – sometimes in very violent and very oppressive ways.

The historian, Isabel Wilkerson, writes that it is projected that the year 2042 will mark the first time in our own country’s history when white people will no longer be in the racial majority – something that has caused enough anxiety and fear among some white people that they have lashed out, violently, against non-white people in recent years – in a church in Charleston, in a synagogue in Pittsburgh, on public transit in Portland, and in the streets of Charlottesville.[3] Those in power have recently attached saw blades to floating barriers in the Rio Grande River to keep people out and have sought to legislate away an entire small segment of the population, based on gender identity.

Way back in the Book of Exodus, the Pharaoh is so scared that these non-Egyptian Israelites – these people who are “different” – are going to take over the country or ally themselves with Egypt’s enemies, that he takes drastic measures – brutally enslaving the Israelite people, “pressing them into hard service in mortar and brick and every kind of field labor.” (Exodus 1:14). But that is not all he does. . .

The king summons two Israelite midwives – Shiphrah and Puah – and tells them, “When you act as midwives to the Hebrew women, and see them on the birthstool, if it is a boy, kill him; but if it is a girl, she shall live.” (1:16). Could you imagine a leader so frightened of losing power that he would order such a thing? I wish this were the only time this has happened, but you might remember King Herod doing the same thing in the time of Jesus when rumors of a Messiah being born reached the king’s ears.[4]

Now, I don’t want to speak for Shiphrah and Puah, but I imagine that they – and a whole lot of other people – are horrified by the king’s command. The thing that he asks is not really something that midwives do. Shiphrah, whose name in the original language means “beauty,” and Puah, whose name suggests a cooing or gurgling “sound that a nurturing woman makes to soothe an infant”[5] might be horrified by the king, but they are midwives – who have seen and done a lot and are strong in ways that the king knows not.

Right after the king gives them this awful command, the text tells us, “But the midwives feared God. . .” In the original language, that word for “fear” can also be translated as having a “reverent fear”[6] of God – thinking about God, in all of God’s power and mystery, with the utmost worshipful respect. And, because the midwives, Shiphrah and Puah, feel this way about God – because they fear God more than they fear the king – they decide to not do what they have been commanded to do. Instead, they disobey the law of the land and let the boys live.

There is a line of women who took on powerful men, Defying laws and scruples to let life live again. And though despite their triumph their stories stayed untold God kept their number growing, creative, strong and bold. So sing a song of Shiphrah with Puah at her hand, Engaged to kill male children they foiled the king’s command. And sing a song of Rahab who sheltered spies and lied; And sing a song of Esther, preventing genocide.[7]

Yes, I know. . . you never thought you’d hear the phrase “preventing genocide” sung to such a jaunty tune, but the song highlights just how high the stakes can be for people of faith and the lives of public witness God calls us to live.

Civil disobedience has long had a place in the church – when people of faith have said “No” to the powers that be so that they can say “Yes” with reverent fear toward God. It’s really a question of “Who is the ruler of our lives?” Are we ruled by human beings or are we ruled by the God who made us, and saved us, and is at work within us? In in a simple, but powerful, act of nonviolent civil disobedience, Shiphrah and Puah stand before the king, and – when asked why the Hebrew women are still having baby boys – they shrug and say, “Well, the babies are already born when we arrive and it’s too late to do what you asked us to do. Maybe Hebrew women just have babies faster than Egyptian women.” (Exodus 1:19)[8] “We’re just midwives, your majesty. What do we know?” they say, as they give each other a knowing look.

As the saying goes, “Well-behaved women seldom make history.”[9] And, because – in this instance – Shiphrah and Puah weren’t well-behaved in the eyes of a very selfish and very unjust law, a baby named Moses was able to be born – Moses, who would be used by God to save God’s people, and bring them out of bondage, and lead them through the wilderness to the Promised Land. But, while today’s story points toward Moses and all that he does for his people, we don’t need to forget these brave midwives who have the courage to say “No,” even if it means risking their lives to usher new life into the world.

There are echoes of this thought in today’s reading from Paul’s letter to the Romans. . . Eugene Peterson translates them in this way:

So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for [God]. Don’t become so well-adjusted to your culture that you fit into it without even thinking. Instead, fix your attention on God. You’ll be changed from the inside out. Readily recognize what [God] wants from you, and quickly respond to it. Unlike the culture around you, always dragging you down to its level of immaturity, God brings the best out of you, develops well-formed maturity in you.[10]

“Take your everyday, ordinary life. . . and place it before God as an offering. . . be changed from the inside out. . . Readily recognize what God wants from you, and quickly respond to it. . .” Or, as one of the residents of River Woods in Manchester so aptly put it this past week when we were there: “Do your own thing by doing God’s thing.”

There are so many who have sacrificed their lives for God over the years, resulting in their own physical death – saints, and martyrs, and the like. But there are so many others who have been living sacrifices – as Paul calls them – who have placed their everyday ordinary lives before God as an offering and God has used them for good in the world, to accomplish God’s gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love purpose in the world. Many of us could name someone from our family or our past who have sacrificed their own needs and desires for us. Of course, many of these living sacrifices have been men, but so many have been a mother, or a sister, or an aunt, a teacher, a friend.

There is a line of women who stood by Jesus’ side, Who housed him when he ministered and held him when he died; And though they claimed he’d risen, their news was deemed suspect, Till Jesus stood among them, his womanly elect. So sing a song of Anna who saw Christ’s infant face; And sing a song of Martha who gave him food and space; And sing of all the Marys who heeded his requests, And now at heaven’s banquet are Jesus’ fondest guests. [11]

And sing a song of all those who – even now – are following Jesus in how they live, in what they say and do, in who they stand up to, in how they serve, and love, and spread good news. . . Would you count yourself among their number? Would I dare to count myself, too?

May we be open to the movement of the Holy Spirit in our minds and hearts, in our bodies and souls, helping us to do our own thing by doing God’s thing, not thinking of ourselves more highly than we ought, but taking the gifts that God has given us and offering them to the glory of God.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

-----

[1] Based upon and borrowing from a sermon I preached in August of 2020 with the title “Call the Midwives.”

[2] John L. Bell, “There Is a Line of Women,” Iona Abbey Music Book (Glasgow: Wild Goose Publications, 2003) 128-131.

[3] Isabel Wilkerson, Caste: The Origins of our Discontents. (New York: Random House, 2020) 6.

[4] See Matthew 2:16-18.

[5] Robert Alter, The Five Books of Moses. New York: W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., 2004. 309-310.

[6] https://biblehub.com/hebrew/3372.htm.

[7] John L. Bell, “There Is a Line of Women,” Iona Abbey Music Book (Glasgow: Wild Goose Publications, 2003) 128-131.

[8] Paraphrased, JHS.

[9] Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2007/09/ulrich-explains-that-well-behaved-women-should-make-history/.

[10] Eugene Peterson, The Message: Numbered Edition (Colorado Springs: NAV Press, 2002) 1557. Romans 12:1-2.

[11] John L. Bell, “There Is a Line of Women,” Iona Abbey Music Book (Glasgow: Wild Goose Publications, 2003) 128-131.

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ringstarrr · 3 years ago

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Stepping outside, she is free

summary: your parents go to your shared apartment to meet ringo for the first time while he's filming the let it be documentary

paring: ringo starr x fem!reader

warnings: spoilers for the get back series, nosy parents, cursing

author's note: this is inspired on "she's leaving home". just wanted to write something for sweet boy ringo. i'm not doing well right now, so i'm focused on writing more frequently to get my mind off of things. send in requests, please!

1969.

You were feeling insecure. Your parents were coming over to dinner to meet Ringo, and you could already hear their judgemental and not-asked for perceptions of your life with your boyfriend. They were coming in the next few hours, but you swore you saw your mother rolling her eyes.

Attempting to avoid most of the bad things they probably would say, you were cleaning and getting everything in place since the early morning. You even woke up before Ringo had to leave for the studio, which he found odd. You were a deep sleeper and liked to sleep in whenever you could, so to see you get out of bed with the birds was a surprise.

"Who died?" He asked, dazed when he walked into the kitchen to you tidying the cabinets. Ringo was fixing his suit on his shoulders. The giggle contrasted the already tired look on your face.

"No one died, Richie." You stopped, putting down the products next to you on the counter you were sitting in, legs bouncing. "Just thought the place needed some cleaning."

"On a Friday morning? Seriously?" Voice filled with disbelief, Ringo didn't believe you for one minute. Crossing his arms as he made his way to you, he continued. "What has got into your head, love?" You giggled once more, relieved to see the little smile that appeared on his lips.

"You know, Rings," you answered with a sigh. Ringo knew how stressed you were about having your parents over even without you telling him about it.

He knew the stories from when you used to live with them. Though he didn't enjoy saying it, he thought your parents were awful and mistreated you, creating a bunch of traumas you carry to this day. And oh, how Ringo cursed the hell out of them for it. That was partially one of the reasons it took so long for him to meet them. He was aware they wouldn't like him or his lifestyle at all, and he didn't like the idea of meeting the people that put you through so much misery. You were okay with it as you also didn't exactly fancy the idea, always telling them Ringo had a busy schedule and couldn't make it - yet now he didn't, and thanks to the papers, they knew about it.

Throughout January, Ringo would be making a new record with The Beatles for their new documentary directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg - and he would also start filming a new movie next month. You two believed it was the best idea to do it that Friday since the band was still in the first days of recording and didn't have much done yet. So you told your parents it was okay for them to visit on the 10th.

"C'mon, love. You know your parents aren't going to like any of this anyways," the boy moved his hands to hold yours. Ringo kissed your knuckles, staring at you longingly. "This week's been rough at Twickenham. Can't we postpone it?" He carried on with the pecks on your hands, moving up your arms.

"If we postpone it one more time, I think my mother will straight-up yell at me over the phone," you laughed nervously. You comprehended how tired Ritchie was - the whole relationship between the lads was crumbling right before their eyes. Ringo usually had the peacemaker role, trying to make it work even with the tension around them. But that was until the White Album's sessions a few months before. He felt so isolated and disconnected from the others so he left the group, coming back after a couple of days. Ringo was a chill and easy-going guy, and the mediator role was still his, yet things were different. It looked like he had to navigate Paul and John downplaying George's ideas and contributions. They were treating Ringo a little nicer since he walked out during the sessions of their previous record, yet, George's work was still neglected and put down. The man was treated like a younger brother with little to no knowledge - and that pissed Ringo off.

The blue-eyed man smiled lightly at you, his hands covered with expensive rings moving to caress your face. He was tired. The bags under his eyes made it way more evident. "Don't want that happening," Ringo erupted his soft giggle, you joining in. "Have a good day at work, darling," he said with a kiss on your forehead.

"You too, Ritchie," you whispered back as you stroked his hair, Ringo's eyes shut for a moment. "Blow their minds, love." That made him beam like a little kid, and you knew that smirk too well.

"I'm only planning on blowing you, pretty thing," he winked, and you laughed, a tint of pink in your cheeks. Ringo connected your lips, holding your face tightly as you two kissed for the first time that day. He enjoyed taking his time to kiss you properly and to make you feel all mushy inside. If there was one thing Ringo certainly wanted was for you to be happy - all the time, for clarification. Once he was standing by the door, keys in hand, the drummer smiled at you again. "See you later then, baby. Love you."

"Love you too," you blew him a kiss, and after capturing it in the air, Ringo left.

Before it was time for you to catch the bus for work, you had cleaned the kitchen and the living room. Even though it was unnecessary, it was good for your mind to be at ease during the day at the office. Your nerves were in control, thank God, but you had a feeling something was wrong. You couldn't point out what it was, but you felt it once you came back from your lunch break. Something was off, and it was frustrating.

Did something happen to your parents? To Ringo? Did someone actually die? Have you done something wrong? Was one of your friends in danger? Did you forget something? You thought it through a lot as you did your tasks for the day, and no answer came. Not a sign from God. No light at all.

Your guts were telling you a piece of information you couldn't understand, and that had your mind spiralling. Out of your intuition, you silently wished and prayed Ringo was okay. Your heart was tight in your chest as the time to leave the office reached. You tried to shake it off, thinking it was probably nothing.

Back to your shared apartment, you took a shower and began getting dressed up for the evening. A sweet baby-blue dress down to your calf paired with black heels and soft makeup. After putting on Ritchie's favourite perfume of yours, you moved to the kitchen. You started cooking the meal for the unfortunate event, pasta with pesto sauce.

The table was ready since the morning, as you did so to make things easier once you got home. You took that as an opportunity to put the crystals and glasses on the dining table, choosing a wine Ringo liked to accompany the evening. Your insecurities were high, and the unsettling feeling didn't wash off, but you were making a good impression that you had your shit together.

Yet, the glass of wine in your hand could argue otherwise. You were a bit tipsy when the doorbell rang. Putting everything on a minimum level on the stove, you breathed in and out before opening the door.

"Hi," was what managed to get out of your mouth, an embarrassed expression on your face.

"Is that all you have to say, (y/n)?" Your mother said with an arrogant tone, eyebrows up, pushing herself into the apartment, your father following suit. You closed the door, shutting your eyes for a few seconds to get you on your feet.

"What do you mean, mom?" You moved to put on a record to have a distraction, to avoid making it so weird and aggressive. After putting on Out Of Our Heads by The Rolling Stones, you noticed your mother's hands on her hips and already disapproving look as she stared at you. Your father was checking the portraits on the walls. "Do you want something to drink?" You walked back to the kitchen, hearing her high pitched heels following you.

"I'll want you that wine of yours, sweetheart," your father said mindlessly from the living room. Turning the stove off, you filled him a glass. He thanked you with a nod, not even looking at you.

You took a long sip of your drink, moving to put the meal on a casserole set at the centre of the table. Your mother still was following you, sitting in front of you at the table. "You ran away, (y/n). All for that-" she cut herself, thinking of what to say. "That drummer boy."

Chewing the insides of your cheeks, you responded. "No, mother. I left so I could live a life of my own. Ringo was out of the country at the time, but you don't remember that," and it was true. Ringo was in the USA for their American tour, and your mother knew it very well since she was the one that got the letters from the postman every time. Your voice showed how the subject wasn't your favourite.

"Don't act all smart, missy!" You had to control the urge to roll your eyes. "We did everything for you, you ungrateful brat! You-"

The front door cut off the discussion. Ringo was home, and by the strong smell of cigarettes and his pained expression, your instincts were right. Something had happened. You saw the old woman shrink at the smell from the corner of your eye. You gulped down harshly.

"Good evenin', folks," Ringo tried to speak with an excited voice, yet it sounded annoyed. He smiled tiredly at you, strolling to sit beside you. Interested now, your father came to sit next to your mother. "Hi, love," he muttered and pecked your lips.

"When did you meet my daughter, Mr Starkey?" Of course, your mother would treat him like this. Your hand went to hold his under the table.

"It was in 1964," Ringo squeezed your hand and began making himself a plate. "She looked out worldly, so I tried to start a conversation." He beamed fondly at you, your face reddening. "You have a lovely daughter, miss. But I think you already know that."

"She'd be a better one if she walked the line." She was stern, eating bitterly. You bit your lower lip nervously, thinking you taste blood.

"But can you blame her, though?" Ringo's eyebrows were upon his forehead, hand going back to hold yours.

"I'm sorry?"

"Everyone deserves to live their lives, be happy," you clutched his hand with everything in you. "Unfortunately for you, (y/n) needed to get out and live by herself." Ringo continued to eat like nothing was going on.

The woman was too stunned to speak, sharing looks with her husband, who just shrugged his shoulders in response. She cleared her throat before speaking again.

"Richard," you held in a chuckle. It amazed you how she couldn't even call him by his nickname. "Do you have any plans for when this Beatle thing ends?" That seemed to send him over the edge. Ringo emitted a nasty short laugh, his hold in your hand stronger. The man's face was twisting in anger.

"A few, yeah. We're getting married, for starters." Sensing your wide-eyed gaze, Ringo stroked your hand gently. He was asking you to marry him - more like telling you, frankly - in front of your parents? You were amazed.

"You were going to marry this man without me even meeting him?" Your mother was once again astonished, while your father just looked disgusted.

"Well, miss," he cackled dryly, "now you know me," Ringo said with a sly smile, sipping the wine. It was funny to see how your mother couldn't close her mouth, utterly shocked.

After that, the dinner went silently. The Rolling Stones' record had stopped long before your parents got up to leave, thanking you for the meal and for inviting them. Locking the door and slipping out of your heels, you turned to Ringo. He was looking through your vinyl collection, eventually holding a copy of The Supremes' Reflections.

"So we are getting married now?" You crossed your arms, shoes in hand. Ringo smirked, putting the album on the victrola. He gestured for you to cuddle him on the couch. You laid on top of him, face in his chest.

"I wanted to piss your ma' off," he laughed, holding you close and kissing your hair. "But honestly, I'd love to."

"Me too," you responded after a while, running your fingers over his arm. He held even tighter, making you giggle. "And what happened? You look exhausted, honey," concern was wall over your voice. Ringo went quiet, stroking your hair.

"George left the band," he told you eventually. You noticed the sorrow in him. Looking up, you caught him crying silently. "I wish John and Paul wouldn't be so over themselves, you know?" You nodded, though you didn't know how they acted in those circumstances, yet you didn't doubt Ringo. It wasn't the first time the Lennon/McCartney duo made your boy feel like this, and it's poor enough to acknowledge there had been worse situations. Ringo's self-esteem wasn't the best, and there were times the boys didn't do much to help him, if not at all.

Stroking his cheeks and whipping the tears away, you planted soft kisses in his hands, trying to calm him down. "And do you want to talk to George, sweetie?" Your fingers moved to caress his scalp, smiling when Ritchie began purring like a little kitten.

"Yeah, of course," he purred as his face was now in the crock of your neck. "But for now, I'm going to cuddle you," he giggled against your skin, causing a wave of tingles up your spin. "And what do you say we get married?"

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