#the new six: boyhood

[kpopmultifan]

THE NEW SIX (TNX) has released the 2nd set of concept photos for their upcoming 3rd mini-album “Boyhood” which   features the title track “Kick It 4 Now” & is scheduled to be released on June 7th.

[heizelnutlatte]

📷 TNX_Official: Tracklist Teaser (Ad Parodies)

The New Six - Boyhood, 2023

[forevertry79]

AVATARS 400x640px | TNX (The New Six) [Photoshoot Prom with THX]

[yixinghoneybee]

Top 250 Songs of 2023: 185. Kick It 4 Now - THE NEW SIX 😉

[averagekpoppermideko87]

The New Six (TNX) 'Kick It 4 Now' | Short K-Pop Review

The New Six (TNX) 'Kick It 4 Now' is the lead track from their 3rd Mini Album 'BOYHOOD'. The mini album and track came out in June.

[youmenotyummy]

I need to buy a copy of TNX's Boyhood album asap, it's been on repeat for the past few weeks 🥹

[sitp-recs]

hello <3 love your recs and i always look forward to discovering tropes i never knew i liked from this blog. don't know if this has been done before (probably, it's a common enough trope methinks), but anything for draco falling first and harry falling harder? preferably from draco's pov since i loveeeee when the oblivious narrator gets confronted with just how ardently they're wanted.

Hi anon! Sure, here are some recs for you :)

Touch Me Fall by @lqtraintracks (E, 23k)

Malfoy was such a ponce. And he was a complete snob. And he was so fucking fit Harry wanted to jump him where he sat. It would be too easy to forget his objective tonight: to really, really, really get Malfoy out of his system.

Welcome to the Broom Closet by incapricious (E, 23k)

Harry thinks he knows how his life will go: Become an Auror. Marry Ginny. Have a family. But then he sees an advertisement in the paper that no one else can see, and his life is turned upside-down. The Broom Closet: you can be anyone you want while you're there, but you won't remember it in the morning.

Waiting By An Open Door by Femme, noeon (E, 29k)

Draco starts following Potterwatch secretly during the War. He wishes Potter would come save him too. But that sort of thing only happens in fairy tales, and Malfoys don't get fairy tale endings, do they?

Open For Repairs by FeelsForBreakfast (M, 35k)

After the war, Draco works at a tv repair shop and Harry breaks things.

Here's The Pencil, Make It Work by ignatiustrout (M, 49k)

Harry thinks "Why is Malfoy working in a coffee shop in muggle London?" is a much simpler question than, "Are you going to accept that auror offer and, if you don't, what will you do?"

In the Shadow of Your Heart by @lqtraintracks (E, 52k)

And thus began the very strange circumstance of their fake dating in public and real fucking in absolute secret. It was, with no comparison, the weirdest relationship Draco had ever been in – which was to say, it wasn't one.

The Boy Who Only Lived Twice by lettered (E, 54k)

Harry Potter is an Unspeakable. Draco Malfoy is the wizard who shagged him. Adventure! Intrigue! Secret identities, celebrities, spies! It's all right here, folks.

You open always (petal by petal) by birdsofshore (E, 65k)

Harry’s not the kind of person who pays for sex. He really isn’t. Until he is.

We Are Young (I'll Carry You Home Tonight) by Femme (E, 68k)

Harry and Draco have been falling into bed on and off again since the last election five years ago, much to the amusement--and financial gain--of their circle of friends. But when Harry agrees to work with Draco to put Kingsley Shacklebolt into the Minister's office, they can't work side-by-side again every day and sleep together; that would be courting disaster. Wouldn't it?

All Our Secrets Laid Bare by firethesound (E, 149k)

Over the six years Draco Malfoy has been an Auror, four of his partners have turned up dead. Harry Potter is assigned as his newest partner to investigate just what is going on.

The Star Splitter by oflights (E, 219k) - Harry falls first and harder, but I think you’ll enjoy Draco’s pov

On a routine time travel assignment to the past, Draco stumbles upon 7-year-old Harry Potter and witnesses his neglect and mistreatment by the Dursleys. In the moment, there is only one solution, even if it goes against all his training as a Time Agent: he has to bring Harry back to the future with him.

A Secondary Education by Thunderbird587 (E, 234k)

Fleeing the aftermath of his recent divorce, Draco Malfoy takes up a post as the new Potions Master at Hogwarts. At first he believes his hopes for a fresh start are dashed when he sees that a certain boyhood rival is on staff there as well. But Harry Potter is being weirdly nice to him, leaving Draco no choice but to play along.

[cowboyshadows]

I’ve written a silly little roommate!Simon before but unfortunately the brain worms are back. Like, what if he’s MORE reluctant and also this time he’s not the responsible one because he’s literally just a guy and also minus other roommates

cw: he’s pervy, price is low-key misogynistic but he means well, allusions to sex but nothing graphic. Mdni as always

It doesn’t start off that way. You guys are neighbors, nothing more. You’re far more chirpier and social than he would prefer - always going out of your way to greet him and bake him cupcakes (‘I made extra!’) and pet his dog. It’s become strangely domestic in a way, he thinks. Poor birdie. Coddle him any further and he might be forced to make a housewife out of you yet.

So imagine his surprise - and quite frankly, delight - when he’s out on his porch for ye olde evening cigar only to see a group of men in navy overalls walking in and out of your house. There you are, standing outside, looking all worried. Hand clutching your chest and all. He looks your way, giving you one inquisitive nod.

‘Termites,’ you call out to him. He lets his cigarette fall to the floor, crushing it with the heel of his boot. Pulls his balaclava back down over his exposed mouth.

Turns out your house is infested with them. City’s declared it hostile, so you’ve gotta find a new place. And live in a motel while you do it.

Simon’s dick has taken him places he wouldn’t go with a M6 rifle. A Radiohead concert. Honestly, not worth it. A pottery class. It grows on you. And now, apparently, a segue that’s inevitably gonna lead him to do something incredibly stupid.

‘Motels are… basically hotels, righ’?’ He adds a huff of laughter, trying to mask how well acquainted he has grown with motels over time. It’s no trip to the Radisson, that’s for sure. ‘Sure it can’ be that bad.’

You look like a puppy that’s been caught breaking the vase. He can picture it in technicolor — ears all floppy, tail hidden between your legs.

With a sigh, he breaks his resolve. Actually, he takes a hammer and goes to town on his resolve.

‘You can live with me, if you want.’ The second part is his rational, north-bound mind speaking. An easy way for him to find a cop out without seeming like a right prick.

So he helps you move into his place. Doesn’t let you lift a hand or so much as crouch down to lift one of your trinkets that’s rolled out. You’re a wreck, always on with the ‘it’s only till I find a place’ and the ‘I’ll pay half the rent’. Relax, birdie. Don’t you know he’s getting as much out of this as you are?

He’s proven terribly wrong in the weeks to come, of course. What they don’t tell you about having a hot roommate you want to mount like a feral mutt is exactly that you can’t. So now he just has this lass in his house, wearing cute little pajamas and cooking for him.

You’ve also managed to get real comfortable in his house, he notes. Despite your initial trepidation to impose, you don’t mind at all now. He’s returned from his day at the base, walking into whatever the hell it is that you’ve managed to make his house now. He still hasn’t gotten entirely used to it.

Maybe because back when it was just him, his hood was only just that. A house, not a home. And that didn’t bother him one bit. His idea of a ‘home’ was drilled into him as the broken one he knew so well from his boyhood. So he makes no effort for personalisation. But it’s not exactly clinical, either.

Typical bachelor scene, really. Navy blue sheets — he can’t remember the last time he’s thrown them for a wash. That was the whole point, anyway, innit? No furniture except for the bare minimum. Fridge nearly always empty except for a single carton of eggs, bread that’s a couple of weeks old, and roundabout six coolers of beer. Give or take, depending on whether he’s had the gang come over for a game.

But it’s different now. The smell of cookies wafts towards him in the doorway. The faint sound of you humming from the kitchen filtering through in company. Riley’s on the couch, sleeping soundly under a crocheted blanket. Former K9, his arse.

‘Did you take my san’wich out of my bag?’ You do this song and dance every two to three days — home’s starting to feel empty without it. It goes somewhat like this: you decide he’s an incompetent man child and go out of your way to do something for him. Mother him, basically. He smiles, catches himself, comes home to nag you about your nagging. You bicker until your face is in a semi-permanent pout that makes his dick throb harder than he’d like to admit. Then he storms off and decompresses — literally — under a hot shower.

Why should today go any different?

‘Yes,’ you reply, not even looking up from the bowl you’re whisking. There’s flour on your cheek. With every movement of the whisk, your body jiggles in a downright sinful way. He’s not a pervert, he swears. But what is a man supposed to do, save for watching? ‘The bread was stale and the cheese was mouldy.’

You had replaced it with a club sandwich instead; filled with fresh, washed vegetables and wine-marinated pork. A small slice of key lime pie on the side, crunchy at the edges and frothy at the middle. There’d been a note attached to the lid of the box — one he’d made the mistake of reading in the vicinity of a certain captain.

‘A sour treat for my favorite sourpuss…? Jesus, Simon, you got a wife we ain’t privy to?’

‘’S the roommate. Won’t stop doin’ this… housewife shite.’ He’s glad he’s still got his mask on. Wouldn’t wanna be caught smiling at the so-called housewife shite.

Price chuckles, signature Duchenne smile buried in his rife beard. ‘Ya don’ seem terribly ‘appy abou’ it.’

He huffs. ‘She treats me like I’m a child. Does my laundry an’ all.’

‘You makin’ it worth her while, then?’ Simon’s ears burn at the tips. ‘The missus and I bicker a lot, too,’ he continues. ‘’S jus’ in their nature.’

‘What do ya do?’

Price grins, threading his lighter over and between his fingers. ‘Give it to ‘er good.’

He almost chokes on the key lime pie.

‘I’m serious. Foolproof.’

‘I can’t shag her.’

‘’Course ya can. She’ll settle down real nice. Ya won’t have to hear about the damn dishes or sheets again, tha’s for sure.’

It’s stupid. He listens to you go on and on about how he forgot to… do something. He’s lost track of what you’re talking about, to be quite honest. Some menial chore he hadn’t realised he was supposed to be doing until you’d moved in.

He’s not gonna shag you. It’ll make for an unnecessarily complicated living situation. He didn’t need that.

But, right hand to God; damn him if the way your hands moved when you were annoyed didn’t make him wanna put them behind your back and—

No, Simon. Bad Simon. She’s your roommate.

He’s Lieutenant “Ghost” Riley. Prized for his discipline, his need to maintain order. But all that seems to slip out of his hands like fine sand when it comes to you. And that’s how he finds himself at what he’s convinced is lower than rock bottom.

To: Cpt. John Price

Subject: - - field blank - -

> need yr help

>> Shagging her?

>>> yes.

>>>> Nice to see you’ve come to your senses

I’ll have a PowerPoint ready by tomorrow

[coneyislandbabey]

the boys are back in town. -> g.dunne

WARNINGS: canon typical profanities and drug use

SYNOPSIS: The Six are back in Pittsburgh during the Numbers tour, and Graham runs into his high school crush. word count: 6,810

NOTES: okay babes this fic is finally here 😭 I hope it doesn't flop and that you love it! The idea was inspired by the Thin Lizzy song of the same name :)

The afternoon sun stretching bright and golden across Pittsburgh looked just as Graham remembered it, a boyhood summer day snatched up from the past and deposited into the present of his life. Sliding into a booth at Dino’s Bar and Grill with the rest of the band, he felt a strange blend of nostalgia and new experience. Ever since the Numbers tour had been arranged, Graham had been looking forward to the Pittsburgh show, to getting to go back home for a few days, as well as the added privilege of getting to show home to Karen and Daisy. 

“I really never thought I’d say this, but it’s good to be back,” Eddie said, settling into his seat. He was wearing the same satisfied smile that Graham was sure rested on his own face. 

“For a few days, at least,” Billy nodded. Even he was in a more agreeable mood than usual, a sure sign that the rose-tinted nostalgia of memories had washed over him, too. There was something sweet and satisfying about coming back to the place where it all started after reaching success. It was a penance paid, a duty fulfilled to the home that had cared for them, nurtured them into all the things they became. 

A waitress came to the table, sandy hair tied back in a long braid falling to her waist, a weary expression on her face, and took everyone’s drink orders before flitting onto the next table. Eddie was pointing out the window across the street, showing Karen an alley that led to an abandoned lot where they often used to get high. Graham settled back in his seat, taking in the conversation and the warm atmosphere and the usual excitement of an afternoon preceding a show. 

“No fucking way,” Warren said suddenly across from him, sitting up straighter to get a better look at something across the restaurant. “No way we run into (y/n) fucking (l/n) while we’re here.” 

Eddie paused his conversation, eyes widening as he looked in the same direction as Warren. Graham valiantly fought the urge to whip his head around to look, his cheeks tinged pink. 

“Who is that?” Daisy asked, turning around to look with a detached interest. 

“Oh, only the girl that Graham here had a crush on for basically all his life,” Eddie responded, a teasing grin on his face. 

“It was not all my life!” Graham insisted, feeling his cheeks go redder. 

“It was a good chunk of it,” Billy responded, looking at his brother fondly. “Had to be all the way back in eighth grade when you started talking about her all the time at home.” 

“Sweet,” Karen said, smiling at him. 

“She’s real pretty,” Daisy said, raising her eyebrows at him suggestively. Finally, Graham couldn’t resist anymore, and he slowly turned his head to find you in the building. You were standing all the way on the other side of the room, but he recognized you right away. You were wearing the Dino’s waitress uniform, a wine red dress that fell just above your knees with a white apron tied around your waist, hair pulled away from your face, jotting down a table’s order. Graham felt his stomach swoop at the sight of you; he couldn’t believe you incited the same reaction in him now that you did back in high school. 

“You should go talk to her, man,” Warren suggested brightly. 

“Yeah, you never know when’s the next time we’ll be in town,” Eddie agreed. 

Graham shook his head fervently, firmly keeping himself from looking back at you again. “No, no, she’s at work and it’s really busy in here. I don’t wanna bother her.” 

“Oh, come on–” Daisy started, and Graham was grateful when she was cut off by their own waitress coming back to take down their dinner orders. By the time she left, something else had caught the table’s attention, and he was safe from being interrogated about his boyhood crush any longer. 

After the check is paid, and everyone has filed out of the booth, ready to get out to the car, Graham was still thinking of you. Covertly, he had tried to sneak glances at you throughout the meal, hoping that you would come to his side of the restaurant, notice the table, and drop by to say hello of your own accord. But the restaurant was so busy you stayed firmly in your section, frazzled and flitting back and forth between tables like a hummingbird. 

He knew he would regret it forever if he didn’t talk to you while he was in Pittsburgh. Eddie was right, none of them knew when they would be in Pittsburgh next, and who knew if you would even be in town the next time he was. He should count his lucky stars about the coincidence of the two of you being in the same place at the same time. 

“Uh, you guys go, I’ll meet you outside in a minute,” Graham said as the group approached the door. 

Warren looked back at him, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Alright, man. Good on you.” Graham rolled his eyes as they left, turning around to scan the room for you. He found you at the bar, leaning on the wooden surface to write something down. It was the first time that whole evening where you hadn’t been running around, and he figured it was now or never. 

As he was standing rooted to the same spot attempting to work up the courage to just walk over, someone called his name. 

“Graham Dunne, is that you?” His head shot up and you were looking at him, a surprised smile gracing your face. His heart stumbled over itself and he fought the urge to press a hand to his chest. Instead, he returned the smile, striding over to you and trying his best to project an easy confidence that he did not feel. 

“Hi, (y/n), how are you?” he asked, leaning on the counter across from you. You tucked your notepad back in your apron, giving him your full attention. 

“Well, right now I’m exhausted, but overall I’m good,” you laughed. “What about you, Graham? What are you doing back eastward?” 

“I’m glad to hear you’re good,” he responded earnestly, and your smile widened at that. “We’re on tour right now, actually. Playing a home show tonight.” 

“Oh, how nice! Bet it feels good to come show off your talent for the home crowd.” 

“I can’t lie, it really does,” Graham laughed. “What have you been up to the last few years?” 

“I’m putting myself through college! I’m pre-law over at UChicago,” you explained. “In the summers I work here, and all that money goes to tuition, of course. It’s a nice job, though, Dino’s like family and he always makes sure I get my fair share of the tips.” 

“UChicago, wow,” Graham said, letting out a low whistle. “I always knew you’d go to some prestigious college. You were the smartest kid in our year.”

“Oh, I don’t know about all that,” you replied, waving the compliment away. Graham was pleased to see the shade of your cheeks deepend with blush. You looked down, brushing a few stray hairs back behind your ears. Graham watched the movement of your elegant hands, couldn’t help but notice the way your thick eyelashes kissed your cheeks when you looked down. 

“Hey, what do you say to coming to our show tonight?” Graham asked, wishing immensely that he had all evening to stand at this counter and ask you about every detail of your life since the last time he’d seen you. He sensed your hesitation and spoke again. “Really, it’d be great. You could say hello to the rest of the guys. I promise we put on a good show.”

“Alright then,” you smiled, and Graham couldn’t help but grin as well. “But it better be a really good show.” 

“For you? It’ll be our best of the tour,” Graham said seriously. “I’ll put your name in at the box office, okay? The show starts at nine.”

“Okay, Dunne. I’ll see you later,” you said. Someone called your name from the kitchen, and you sent a small wave his way before disappearing through the swinging doors. 

You felt ridiculous. 

Standing in front of your vanity, you smoothed the fabric of your dress again, fussing with the sleeves and your hair. You picked up your mascara, swiping another coat over your lashes for good measure. God, you couldn’t believe how nervous you felt about seeing Graham Dunne again. Graham Dunne– making you nervous! It felt like high school all over again. Actually no, it felt worse than high school, because the guy had really come into himself, filled out and confident in a way he never had been in high school. 

You were surprised that he even remembered you enough to strike up conversation earlier, let alone invite you to his band’s show. In high school you had been friendly enough with Graham, but looking back, you definitely spent more time talking with his other friends than with the boy himself. He was reserved, a little shy and easily flustered. You always thought it was cute. You didn’t think that Graham had spent much time thinking about you, though. Maybe you were wrong about that, after all. 

Before you can make yourself late by fussing too much over your appearance, you step into your shoes and grab your bag, avoiding looking at yourself in any of the mirrors in the house on the way out lest you get distracted. The venue wasn’t far so you decided to walk, taking in the fresh summer evening air and the feeling of anticipation that had been steadily building in your stomach. As you got closer to the venue, you began to spot other people who were clearly going to the show, hair long and wild, outfits far more elaborate than one would usually find in Pittsburgh on a summer night. A few were even wearing The Six t-shirts, and you felt a strange flush of pride whenever you saw one. You loved thinking about those boys you had known in high school, lanky and awkward but working so hard toward their dreams, having actually achieved all they wanted. 

You approached the box office, smiling politely at the bored looking attendant. When he finally looked up and noticed you standing there, you gave him your name. 

He slid a ticket across the counter and said, “There was a note left with the ticket, you’ve been invited backstage after the show. Enjoy.” 

“Oh! Well, thank you,” you responded, holding the ticket tightly in both hands and trying to hide your surprise. You felt your cheeks flush with pleasure, and chastised yourself for acting like a smitten child just because an old friend was extending a kindness to you. Really, it was so ridiculous that he was having such an effect on you, considering he wasn’t even near you at the moment. 

As you walked into the venue, your eyes idly perused your ticket, and your surprise doubled to see that it was about as close to the stage as you could get. On your way to your seat, you stopped at the bar to buy your overpriced drink of choice, growing more excited about seeing Graham by the minute. In fact, you were excited by the mere act of being at a rock show; it felt as though it had been centuries since you last got out of the house to do something fun. 

The opener of the show was Daisy Jones, a woman you knew nothing about but ended up enjoying her music immensely. She had a raw, magnetic energy on the stage, and a voice that silenced all else and commanded total attention. By the time the Six took the stage, you were a little drunk off of your overpriced drink and discovering that you really loved the atmosphere of rock shows. This was definitely helped by the fact that the Six were really fucking good. Watching them play, you couldn’t believe that you had never gotten around to listening to either of their albums, especially considering you knew them from back in the day. You had already resolved to hit up the record store before your shift tomorrow and pick them both up. 

Billy was an enigmatic front man, of that there was no argument, but you couldn’t pry your eyes from Graham. You were standing right in front of where he was positioned on stage, and from your vantage point could take in every detail of him as he played. He had complete, intoxicating command of the guitar, playing so effortlessly that he would have looked bored if not for how clearly he was enjoying himself. By the end of the set he was sweaty and exhausted, his chestnut curls sticking to the pale skin of his neck, but you swore you had never seen him look so alive, so himself in the years you’d known him. 

After the encore, you squeezed your way through the crowd toward backstage, where a large and intimidating bouncer was guarding the entryway. A crowd of other fans jostled you around as they tried to find a way back, but you made your way, determined, through them, giving your name to the bouncer and telling him what the box office attendant had told you hours ago. He consulted his list and, without a word, moved to the side to let you through. 

Graham spotted you a few minutes after the gig ended, standing in the chaos of backstage and looking unsure of yourself. Really, he had spotted you as soon as the set started, eyes going straight to the seat he knew he’d reserved a ticket for, and had needed to look away almost immediately because you looked so beautiful it was distracting him and he almost missed the first few notes of the opening song. Throughout the rest of the gig he snuck glances at you, pleased and exhilarated when he found your eyes already on him every single time. He was over the moon that you actually decided to show up; his entire evening had been spent worrying about whether you thought his offer was serious or not, or if you would decide seeing him again wasn’t worth the late night. 

“(y/n)!” he called and your gaze snapped his way, a broad smile growing on your face as your feet propelled you towards him. When you reached him, your arms wrapped him in a tight hug, not caring that he was warm and sweaty and still heaving from the exertion of the show. His arms circled you in return, and he had half a mind to be embarrassed about how totally he lit up in your presence. But none of his bandmates were there to tease him at the moment, so he leaned into your touch, letting the goofy grin take over his face completely. 

“That was fucking amazing!” you gushed as soon as you pulled away. “I mean, I always knew you guys were talented, but what I just heard? Above and fucking beyond, Graham! I’m so proud of you guys.” 

Graham was having a hard time focusing on what you were saying. Your hair was messy from dancing and your cheeks were flushed a valentine red and you were starting to make him feel exactly like you did back in high school. 

“Thanks, sunshine, that really means a lot coming from someone who’s known us since before the beginning,” Graham said. That really means a lot coming from you, he wanted to say, because your word used to be akin to gospel to me and I’m thinking that it still is. The fact I still mean something to you and that you have something to praise about me feels like a prayer answered. 

“Well, you’ve certainly grown a long way from the boy I used to know,” you said, smile slipping shyly, “the rockstar thing suits you, Dunne.” 

“Glad you think so,” he grinned. “Hey, let’s head back to the green room, I want to introduce you to Karen and Daisy.” 

“Oh yes, I’m dying to meet them,” you agreed, and when Graham, a little flustered, offered you his elbow like a gentleman might, you slipped your hand into the crook of it without hesitation. You head back to the green room together, which was already filled with the other band members and several people you didn’t recognize, the afterparty already in full swing. Graham led you first to where the blonde keyboardist was sitting, speaking to an older guy in a ridiculous pair of glasses. 

“Guys, I’d like you to meet (y/n), she’s an old friend from high school,” Graham said, catching the attention of the pair. He turned to you, saying, “This is Karen, our keyboardist, as you know, and Rod, our tour manager.” 

“Nice to meet you both,” you smiled. “Karen, you were seriously badass on stage.” 

“I like her already,” Karen said, smirking at Graham. “Nice to meet you, too, (y/n), I hope you’ve been having fun.” 

“How could I not be?” you asked, smile growing wider. 

“(l/n)! Hey, great to see you!” Before you could register the voice, two hands had clapped your shoulders, squeezing. You turned around to see the grinning face of Warren Rojas, a little more grown looking and way more into vests than he was when you used to toke up together after school. 

“Warren!” you matched his enthusiasm, squeezing him in a hug. “You fuckin’ killed it up there! I’m so glad I got to see it.” 

“We’re glad you’re here, man. How’ve you been? I heard from Graham that you’re putting yourself through college?” You blinked, momentarily thrown for a loop. Graham was talking about me? Oh, god, you felt more and more like a sixteen year old with a study hall crush with every minute that went by. 

“Yeah, I am! It’s not as glamorous as being a rockstar, but I’m really excited about the future,” you responded, and Warren laughed. 

“I’m happy for you, man. You always deserved to chase down your dreams.” You thanked him and he swept you into another hug before disappearing into the room. Before you could turn back to Graham, you saw Eddie Roundtree heading your way with their fire-haired opener, Daisy. 

“Roundtree! It’s good to see you again,” you greeted, hugging him as he arrived in front of you. 

“You too, (y/n). I’ve heard you’ve been doing big things for yourself,” Eddie said, and you felt yourself blush at yet another allusion to Graham talking about you with the band. “This is Daisy Jones; Daisy, this is an old school friend of ours, (y/n) (l/n).” 

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” the girl said conspiratorially, surprising you by pulling you into a hug. 

“Good things, I hope,” you joked. “You were mesmerizing on stage tonight, Daisy, really.” 

She smiled, ducking her head at your compliment. When she looked up she addressed you and Graham, who was still a warm and solid presence at your side. “Oh! You two, come do a line with us.” 

She jutted her head back towards a table, where Karen was cutting white powder into a row of neat lines. 

“Oh, I better not. Early shift tomorrow morning,” you said apologetically.

“A drink, at least!” Daisy said, waving off your words. 

“Okay, fine,” you conceded, laughing. “But just one, I’m already a little drunk from what I had during the show.” 

“I can get her drink, you go do your thing,” Graham offered, gesturing to the table. Daisy made no arguments, sitting down next to Karen and pulling a dollar bill out of her pocket, rolling it tightly. You followed Graham over to a different table, where a few handles of booze and some beer were situated. 

Graham picked up a cup and turned to you, brow raised. “What’s your poison?” 

“Whiskey,” you responded confidently, earning a surprised sound from the man. 

“Didn’t peg you as a whiskey kind of girl,” he hummed, pouring some of the amber liquid into two cups, before handing one to you. 

You accepted it, taking a sip without grimacing. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Dunne.” 

I want to sit in one spot and listen to you talk until there’s nothing I don’t know about you, Graham thought, a little dizzy. The sly smirk you aimed his way as you said those words had gone straight to his head. He said, “Apparently so, sunshine.” 

Soon enough, the venue was getting ready to close and the afterparty moved to the tour bus, where even more booze and different kinds of drugs were produced out of seemingly nowhere. You squished into one of the slim couches, Graham sitting on one side and Warren on the other. 

Graham had his arm slung over the back of the couch, and you were pressed right into his side, skin touching from shoulder to knee. He knew it was more about the lack of space on the couch and in the tour bus in general than anything else, but the contact still lit him completely on fire. The night was growing old, and Graham was growing pliant from the weed and booze he’d been consuming for the last few hours, and looking at you, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself not to turn into a complete and total buffoon. Already his eyes were lingering a little too long on your lips every time you spoke, his responses a few beats too late because he was getting so distracted just by looking at you, listening to the gentle cadence of your voice. 

You said something, and Graham didn’t quite catch it, too lost in his thoughts. 

“Graham? You in there?” you questioned, jokingly waving a hand in front of his face. “What’re you thinking about?”

Graham took you in; your soft lips, brought up into the gentle curve of a smile, the humor that brightened your eyes, the way your hair had frizzed slightly in the humidity, the single strands catching in the light. 

“You know, I had a crush on you in high school,” he blurted before his mind could catch up with his mouth. Fuck. Idiot. He watched the surprise color your features as his words registered, bracing himself for the awkward turn the conversation was sure to take. 

“You did?” you asked, and your voice was all curiosity, no judgment, no disgust, no immediately lifting to your feet to escape him. Graham steadied a bit. 

“Yeah,” he confirmed. “I can’t believe you didn’t know. I didn’t think I was doing a good job of hiding it.” 

“You barely talked to me Graham,” you laughed. “You were shy. Around me, at least. I thought it was cute.” 

Graham nearly choked on his own saliva. “You thought I was cute?”

“Sure I did,” you shrugged. “I might have been harboring a little crush on you myself, come to think of it.”

“What, you mean I had a chance with you in high school?” he asked, mind whirring. Immediately after, he felt like smacking himself in the forehead for the bluntness of his question. It had sent you into a dizzying peal of laughter, though, and he would happily embarrass himself a dozen times over to hear that again. 

“If you had ever worked up the courage to ask, I would have said yes,” you nodded, watching the range of emotions that passed over his face in sheer amusement. 

“And what if I asked now? Would I still have a chance?” Graham felt like someone else had taken the wheel in his brain, like someone else’s mouth was forming the words. He couldn’t believe he actually had the nerve to ask. 

“I suspect my answer would still be the same.” 

“Well then, (y/n), we’re here for a few days before our next stop on tour, and I’d like to take you out on a proper date, if you’ll let me,” Graham said, commending himself for getting the whole sentence out without stumbling over any words. 

“I would love that, Graham,” you said, that brilliant smile of yours overtaking your face. “And I think I know where we should go. Meet me out front of the show venue tomorrow evening at seven?” 

“Okay, yes,” Graham nodded enthusiastically. “Out front of the venue at seven.” 

At five minutes to seven the next evening, Graham arrived in front of the venue. The sun was still bright in the deep blue sky, the promise of a warm evening and a humid night hanging in the air. He idled near the wall, looking up and down the street for you and trying to keep the nervous energy to a minimum. He had imagined getting to take you out dozens of times back in high school, when he was still a shy, quiet kid and you were a dream impossibly out of reach. Several times over the course of the day, he managed to convince himself that he’d made up last night’s conversation, that you never agreed to a date. Why would you? In his head, Graham was still that same little boy. You brought out that old shy nervousness, and he didn’t know what to do with himself, or why that would endear you to him. 

At seven on the dot you came around the corner, wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt with a little pair of denim shorts and big, tall leather boots. Your hair was loose, flyaway strands dancing across your face in the wind. Graham’s heart stumbled; he was sure that he’d never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. 

“Punctual. I like that,” you grinned, stopping in front of him. 

“Of course, I had to make a good impression on you,” he said and you laughed, rolling your eyes. Graham bent to greet you with a kiss on the cheek and a boyish grin. 

“So, where are we going?” he asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. 

“Dontcha trust me, Dunne?” you asked, arching a brow. “It’s a surprise.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, hands raised in surrender. “You just lead the way, then.” Satisfied, you started down the sidewalk in the opposite direction from whence you came. 

“I bought your records today, before work,” you told him as you went. 

“Oh?” 

“Yup, figured it was damn well time. Basically everyone in Pittsburgh owns them as a point of hometown pride, even the ones who didn’t have a crush on the guitarist in high school,” you said matter-of-factly. 

Graham laughed, shaking his head. “Did you only buy them ‘cause you think I’m cute?” 

“Oh that was a big factor,” you nodded seriously. “But actually I just really cannot deny your talent.” 

As you walked on, you filled him in on something funny that happened during your shift earlier in the day, and he told you about how the rest of the band had teased him the whole time he was getting ready about finally getting a shot with you. Finally, you stopped in front of a familiar building with a kitschy facade, sporting the name ‘Miller Lanes’. 

“Ta-da,” you shrugged sheepishly. “I figured some nostalgia was appropriate for the evening.” 

Just the sight of the Miller Lanes sign brought Graham right back to teenagehood, when the neighborhood bowling alley had been the place to be on Friday and Saturday nights. On the rare weekends that the Dunne Brothers weren’t playing a wedding or prom or some other shit gig like that, they usually came in for a game. Graham could easily call to mind dozens of memories of seeing you there over the years, splitting milkshakes with your friends and laughing a lane or two over. 

“Man, I almost forgot about this place,” he said, peering up at the sign. “Just so you know, I’m a terrible bowler.” 

“Oh, so am I. That’s what makes it fun,” you assured him, extending your hand. He took it, and you led him inside. Inside, nothing had changed since the last time Graham had been there. Polished wood floors, red vinyl seats and shining chrome ball machines, paintings of bowling balls and pins on the walls. There was a bar in the center of the room, and he was almost certain that it was the same curmudgeonly man standing behind it, drying a glass, that had been there when he was in high school. 

“You get us a lane, and I’ll go get some snacks?” you offered, and Graham nodded. He watched you trot over to the bar and strike up a conversation, even managing to get a smile out of the grouchy senior manning it. He set up a lane for the two of you, and a minute later you came back, balancing a pitcher of cheap beer in one hand and a towering plate of nachos in the other. 

“I can’t believe you picked this place,” Graham said, unburdening you of the nachos and setting them down on the little table at your lane. 

“I know, I picked it to surprise you,” you responded easily. “Ready for me to kick your ass at bowling?” 

“I thought you said you were terrible, too!” 

“I am! But I hate losing, so I won’t,” you said. Graham desperately wanted to tell you how cute he thought the look of determination that settled on your face was, but he held his tongue, figuring that wouldn’t go over well. 

“Don’t bet your money on it, sunshine. I’m pretty competitive myself,” he said instead, sauntering over to pick his ball. 

“We’ll see about that one.” 

An hour went by in the blink of an eye, and all too soon most of the game was over. As promised, you both had bowled terribly, but you were beating Graham just marginally. Truthfully, he hardly noticed; he was too caught up in the way you looked under the dim glow of bowling alley lights, and the way your nose scrunched when you laughed (at his jokes!), and how funny your stories were, how charismatic your quips. You came up with witty comebacks to everything he said just as easily as you left him flustered, and he felt all turned around in a way that was brand new to him. 

“Well, do you remember Jenny Cranston from school?” you asked, still laughing from the story Graham had just told. At his nod, you said, “She up and dropped out of college a few months ago to be a groupie for the Eagles! Can you believe it?” 

“Isn’t Jenny Cranston the one who’s been telling everyone she’s going to be a doctor since we were ten?” Graham asked in disbelief. 

“Yes, but that’s not even my biggest problem with it! I mean, why the Eagles of all the bands you can be a groupie for? If you’re gonna throw away all your dreams, pick someone more relevant!” Graham couldn’t help but laugh at how incensed you were over the whole thing. 

You turned away from him for a moment to aim your ball down the lane, cheering when you managed to knock over four pins. You ran back over to Graham, peering up at the scoreboard, jumping and letting out a cheer when you confirmed for yourself that you won. 

“In your face, Dunne! Told you I’d kick your ass,” you said triumphantly. 

“I wouldn’t call winning by five points kicking my ass,” Graham argued, a fond smile on his face as he watched you celebrate. 

“Oh, I would beg to differ, actually.” 

“Well, in that case,” Graham said, dropping into a mocking bow. “Hats off to your majesty, queen of Miller Lanes.” 

“Why, thank you,” you said haughtily, before dissolving into laughter. “Guess it’s time for you to be a gentleman and walk me home?” 

“I guess it is,” he sighed, offering you his elbow again, just as he did after the show. And again, you happily slipped your hand into the crook of it, unable to avoid thinking about how right it all felt. Graham led you out of the building, turning down the sidewalk in the direction of your house. 

The two of you walked in a comfortable silence for a while, taking in the nocturnal symphony of summer crickets and downtown traffic. A few blocks down, Graham stopped under a streetlight, turning to face you. You peered up at him, a silent question in your curious look. 

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night,” Graham said, the volume of his voice barely above a mutter. 

“You should stop waiting and just do it,” you encouraged. Your face was open, eyes shining brightly under the streetlamp, skin cast in a bluish glow from the neon sign of a nearby storefront. You were more beautiful every time he looked at you, and he couldn’t puzzle out how you managed it. 

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, one hand coming to rest almost tentatively, nervously on your waist, the fingers of his other hand brushing against your jaw, drawing in to cup your chin. His heart was beating in his throat. It was ridiculous; Graham had had a girlfriend or two since he left Pittsburgh, and had messed around with his fair share of girls, but the simple prospect of getting to kiss you on the sidewalk after a first date had him more nervous than he’d even gotten before the release of his first album. 

Gently, his lips brushed against yours, and you fisted your hand in his shirt, pulling him down closer to you, firmer. He responded in kind, breaking away from you for a second before surging forward to kiss you again, this time with much more fervor. 

When you broke away he was grinning like an idiot, his baby blue eyes scrunched in the corners, and you knew in that moment that you would do anything in the world to see that bright, affectionate smile a million more times. 

Breathlessly, Graham said, “Come on, we better get you home.”

“Ah, worried I’ll miss my curfew?” you joked as the two of you resumed walking. 

“Actually, I’m the one with the curfew,” Graham laughed. “Billy and I are staying at our mom’s tonight. Makes me feel like I’m seventeen again.”

You laughed, leaning your head on Graham’s shoulder. “We better hurry then. Wouldn’t want to make Mrs. Dunne angry.” 

“No, trust me, we would not,” he agreed, laughing with you.

Still, when you reached the sidewalk in front of your house, neither of you were quite ready for the night to end. You wandered forward, sitting down on the stoop and patting the concrete next to you for Graham to sit as well. He did as instructed, easing down next to you, leaning his weight on his arms. 

You glanced down at his strong hands, splayed across the concrete and glowing pale and blue in the moonlight. The whole of Graham Dunne was glowing pale and blue in the moonlight– he looked like an angel. Your breath caught in your throat, and you resisted the urge to reach up and brush those soft curls out of his face. 

“It’s a shame you’re leaving so soon,” you said, giving voice to the thought that had been plaguing both of your minds all evening. A perfect evening, the perfect person, but with a rapidly approaching expiration date. Tomorrow, Graham would leave with the rest of the band, moving on to their next tour date, and all you would be doing is working an afternoon shift at Dino’s, missing him with every thought not occupied by your job. 

“It’s more than a shame,” Graham said softly. The thought of getting up tomorrow and getting on the tour bus, leaving you behind again after this kiss, this night that he could see easily becoming so much more, was absurd. The only thing more absurd would be for him to stay. 

You yawned, cupping a hand over your mouth. 

“It’s time for you to turn in for the night, I think,” Graham said softly. 

You smiled apologetically. “I’d stay out here all night if I could, you know. But that damn job leaves me exhausted.” 

“The lady needs her beauty sleep,” Graham said in return, standing up and offering you a hand. Even after you stood, he didn’t let go of your hand. 

“Listen,” he started, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “The tour bus is leaving from my mom’s house tomorrow morning at eleven. Just– I just wanted you to know.”

He stopped just shy of asking you to come, worried that such a request would be too much, worried that this night hadn’t stirred quite as many feelings in your chest as it did for him. You squeezed his hand, smiling up at him. 

“Thank you for a wonderful night, Graham,” you said, trying to convey all of your emotions with those simple words. “I can’t tell you how lucky I feel that you walked into Dino’s on my shift.”

“Believe me, I feel ten times luckier,” he said emphatically. He dipped his head down, pressing his lips to yours again. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging him closer, needing him as close as he possibly could be, even if just for a second. He captured your bottom lip between his, scraping it just barely with his teeth; your fingers looped into the curls at the base of his neck, tugging, immensely pleased with the low sound the action elicited out of Graham. 

You broke away for a breath, foreheads resting against each other. Graham’s thumbs comfortably caressed the skin of your hips, easing up and under the hem of your t-shirt and back down again. Breathlessly, you said, “If you didn’t have a curfew, I’d take you upstairs.” 

Graham groaned, closing his eyes. “Oh, don’t tell me that.”

You laughed, pressing up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “If only.” 

“If only,” he agreed, fixing you with a look that you couldn’t quite parse. “Goodnight, sunshine.” 

“Goodnight, Dunne. Get home safe.”  Graham watched you walk up the stairs and unlock the door, making sure you got safely inside. Then he stood on the sidewalk outside your house for a minute more, gazing up at the second floor light that had turned on in your bedroom and wishing more than anything that he still had you in his arms. He wanted to knock on the door, call you back down to him. He wanted to make absurd proposals, ask you to quit your job and come on the road with him for the rest of the summer. He wanted you to ask him to stay, because he was sure that if you did, he would do it without question. 

Instead, he turned and carried on down the road, towards home.

The next morning, Graham kissed his mother goodbye, shouldering his duffel bag and making his way back onto the tour bus. The very weight of his own bones felt heavier today– it had never felt harder for him to leave a place. 

“Hey, Dunne!” Graham paused on the bus steps, turning around so quickly that he almost fell over. You were standing on the sidewalk, dressed in your Dino’s uniform with your hair pulled back, a bright, bittersweet smile on your face. He dropped his duffel bag in the aisle, trotting back down the steps to engulf you in a hug. “I couldn’t let you leave without a proper send-off, could I?”

Graham pulled away from the hug just enough to be able to look at your face. His voice was heavy, as bittersweet as your smile when he said, “I wish I had more time.”

You waved him off. “I’m not through with you yet, Dunne. I’ll be here the rest of the summer, and I’ll be back in Chicago for school in the fall. So, you know where to find me, and you better find me.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” he said. 

“Promise?” 

“Cross my heart.” 

You grabbed either side of his face, pulling him down into a kiss. His grip tightened on your waist, but you pulled away before things could get any harder for both of you. 

“Time for you to go,” you said softly, nodding toward the bus. Graham turned from you, climbing the stairs once again. You stepped back a safe distance from the curb, and waved at Eddie and Warren who had been unabashedly watching the events unfold from the window as the bus pulled out onto the street. 

Just like that, Graham Dunne was gone from your life as fast as he’d crashed back into it. 

tag list: @ariianelle

[space-blue]

BG3 Fic Feb Comic Edition, Day 20 :

Tav gets a proposal from their partner. In which Gale offers to pay the bill on a fancy new outfit to wear around camp, so long as Tav lets him pick the cut. He's fallen for his love's chubby body and thinks he deserves better than the rags they made it to Baldur's Gate with.

With a small rambling H/C below the cut on Gale's relationship with fat, and a chubby/fat LI.

In which I posit that Gale's abs are fake, and a relationship with a fat or chubby Tav can change his view on his own body.

I saw the debate going around early on, and it has stuck with me. Are Gale's abs real? Do they make sense on a man who has been on a self-imposed year of isolation in his tower? A gourmand who loves to cook?

I've seen art that shows him working out, and I've seen lots of art in which the abs are replaced with chubbiness he's either fine with or self conscious about. But see, I'd like to think that Gale, the good dancer of Blackstaff academy, Chosen of Mystra, prodigy fretted over since boyhood, would have a particular relationship with "appearances".

Let's imagine that his looks are exactly as they are at the start of the story. He has a six pack, depression, and a magical black hole stuffed in his chest that pushes a strange hunger on him. He eats magical artefacts to upkeep it, and delicious dishes to soothe the sadness and anxiety.

Except now he's on the road, making do as best he can, prepping meals out of what we can scrounge. So for a while the intense physical effort of the adventure, paired with bare bones meals, would maintain his physic. But eventually, nature would take its course, and arriving in the environs of Baldur's Gate, sweets are available again, as well as real, restaurant grade food. His waist thickens, his cheeks fill out, he's less gaunt. He's got the glow of a man in love, too.

But even deeply in love, Gale struggles to fathom that Tav could love him as he is. Well, no, of course Tav loves him, but Gale is only offering so much, and isn't that bad? Tav, who he now loves more than his own Goddess... Tav deserves more. Deserves better than puny, human Gale. I think God Gale would come with chiseled silver abs because it's the vision he has of perfection. An ambitious body should be flawless, right? And Mystra, his Goddess, is a skinny depiction of "perfection" herself, isn't she?

So in his mind, fat is still a flaw. Assuming we manage to show him the light and guide him away from godhood, that he is truly who we love, as we love him, I think that Gale, master of illusion, would still want to present the best way possible for Tav. Having regained his old abilities, he'd be tempted to trim himself again.

I think his abs, in that context, are a lazy wizard's artifice. Anyone at Blackstaff can do it, and does. Being chubby, to them, is an aesthetic choice. And if it's not in fashion, then why indulge it? But also why work out, when time can be best spent hunting and reading books, writing essays, and sourcing collections of rare artefacts? Or eating 5 stars meals at the best restaurants in Waterdeep? There's only so many hours in the day, and so much to do. Plus, we've seen his home, and he pointed out the magical piano that plays itself (wink wink), not the dumbbells and workout bench.

No, Gale would be tempted to go back to his easy snatched waist, and probably would if his LI was slim. He's got a tendency for self-consciousness. I like to imagine that he kept the six pack through his great depression era because he just couldn't stand the idea of slipping in appearance this much, and having to get a new wardrobe. We already know the beard is unusual, and that he keeps it because he likes it, to Tara's dismay.

I think a fat or chubby Tav would help Gale relax. He falls for this person, and they so happen to be fat. All right, so what? He leans more towards intercourse in the Weave anyway, so bodies aren't so high a concern. But after Gale declares his feelings (which are returned) and the intimacy with Tav becomes more physical (small caresses, sleeping and cuddling together, hugging...) I think he'd start seeing the light.

He'd press himself into Tav and be completely overcome with the pleasure of having all this softness be for him. That Tav being chubby means more of Tav to have.

Slowly realising that Tav's fat isn't making them any less gracious or fetching in their clothes, and that a lot of the things Gale was worried about in himself were image concerns brought by the gazes of others. Expectations put on him. What a wizard of his standing should look like, that being a gourmand should not get in the way of being Mystra's arm-candy Chosen.

If Tav's chubby belly is such a delight however, then why should his be an issue? I think Gale would remain nervous and try to open the conversation, rather than not mention it or deciding to make the change on his own. Because ultimately, even being more relaxed around the idea that he's gaining weight again, he'd be nervous that this might not suit Tav's tastes.

That's the problem with being a wizard this powerful. You can influence your self and your image so much. Heck, there are spells that can resculpt your very face, so why would someone like Gale, who has carte blanche on himself, dare disappoint his love?

Tav would have to work to reassure him, but imo would have less struggle is they are a man, or masc, because Gale couldn't use the "beauty standards for thee" logic loop. A handsome man who makes tight shirts look inviting? Fat softened pecs becoming the greatest pillow he's ever rested his chest on? Seeing a form of desirable beauty in his lover that he's slowly growing to mirror? He'd wax poetic about it, get in his feels.

Tav could whisper a soft, 'Please, be yourself.' and Gale would never concern himself with six packs again, nor be afraid to develop his well-settled-professor's body.

Gale's taste remains a tad refined, and I think his concern with appearances would not go away completely. It's just that, settled in Waterdeep, he'd drag Tav to his favourite tailor, and commissions well fited clothes for him. I can see Gale being quite on top of fashion, and anxious for everyone to see Tav under his best light, especially early on as they meet the family, his circle of friends, the faculty... Stressful days, during which being able to sink into Tav's soft embrace would be the best of cures.

[kpopmultifan]

THE NEW SIX (TNX) has released the 1st set of individual concept photos of Sungjun & Junhyeok for their upcoming 3rd mini-album “Boyhood” which   features the title track “Kick It 4 Now” & is scheduled to be released on June 7th.

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

tell me about him.

the story i remember: an orphan boy is raised to be very good at sports. he accidentally kills the local king’s favorite dog, and takes the dogs place as a guard??

not an orphan! he has many dads. really a disproportionate number of dads. and also a mum. she's called dechtire or dechtine and doesn't come up very often, but she's the sister of conchobar, king of the ulaid, so cú chulainn is the king's nephew

he gets his name by killing (deliberately) the watch dog of a man named culann, bc he was late to a feast and the dog had already been let out to guard the place so it tried to kill him but he got there first. culann wasn't thrilled about this, so young sétanta (or sédana but it's sétanta in all the versions of the boyhood deeds that i know) is like "i will get you another dog and in the meantime i will guard your land for you" and everyone is like, cool, that seems a reasonable thing for a six year old to say, let's give him a new name while we're about it

anyway then he grows up to do a shitton of murder, most notably in táin bó cúailnge, which is the story of one 17-year-old boy (cú chulainn) versus the armies of ireland, and he's winning. also he kills his best friend/foster brother in a deeply homoerotic duel, as ya do.

bunch more murders, bunch more adventures, then eventually it catches up with him ~16 years later and the kids of loads of people he killed are like "hey so fuck that guy in particular, right?" and team up to murder him bc truly he was great at making enemies. bye bye cú chulainn. he dead.

cú chulainn's best friend, best weapon, and probably the sole reason he didn't die at 15 instead of 33 is his charioteer láeg mac riangabra. láeg my best beloved. bit of a weirdo, bit obscure, no one's totally sure where he comes from and also he is entirely down to do murder for cú chulainn when necessary. probably a similar age to cú chulainn which frankly explains a lot. they play fidchell together which is a strategy board game a bit like chess so basically they are the chess club nerds who will beat YOU up

i love them, your honour

[buster-keaton]

from filmplay magazine, july 1922

transcript:

Hard Knocks Make a Man

Joseph Francis Keaton, sometimes called "Buster", is living proof of the adage

By Spencer Russell

Buster Keaton, he of the frigid countenance, who bears the reputation of being one film comedian who has never been known to smile on the screen, may give the impression to the layman of one who is traveling through the highways and byways of life with a great sorrow in his heart.

It might be suspected that here is a young man who has been cheated out of all the joys of youth and boyhood. One wonders if as a small boy this sad-faced mirth-provoker of today ever smiled, or played or got into mischief like other boys. Then one is amazed to learn that he did.

The fact is that Buster enjoyed the many hard knocks he received in his young life and had a corking good time taking them. You see, Buster, even as a little fellow, was paid for the hard knocks that were dealt out to him. He laughed and smiled a great deal then. Perhaps Buster still smiles once in a while, though certainly never within range of a motion picture camera.

As a boy, Buster romped, and played, and worked all over the length and breadth of this great land. While on the stage he found that his audiences liked him best when he looked his saddest. And for some reason the face of gloom followed him into the film world with a heart that was really gay and carefree.

All of which explains why Buster refuses to laugh now when he faces a camera. He insists that no man is happier than he, and considering his happy marriage to charming little Natalie Talmadge, this claim may well be believed.

The future star of the Buster Keaton Comedies was born in the little town of Pickway[sic], Kansas, October 4, 1895. He was the first child of Myra and Joseph Keaton, both members of the well known stage families.

Young Keaton was named Joseph Francis and at the time of his arrival his parents were traveling with a medicine show, in which Harry Houdini, later one of the world's master magicians, was a leading performer. A few weeks following Buster's birth a cyclone came along and wiped the thriving young village of Pickway[sic] off the map. Fortunately, however, Buster and the other members of the Keaton family had moved away. Six weeks later Keaton became a member of his father's show.

Buster was called "Joseph," when it was necessary to refer to him, until he was six months old, when a wonderful discovery was made. He fell down a flight of stairs and didn't hurt them a bit. He himself escaped uninjured. From then on his name was Buster. At the manly age of four years Buster drew his first salary check, which was in payment for his services as a human football. He had a natural ability for falling and tumbling without injuring his little body and his father, who was an expert tumbler also, coached the little fellow until he became a marvel for one so young. His father sewed a trunk handle inside his coat and Buster's job was to be picked up by this handle and be thrown across the stage, knocking down sets and cutting up in other playful ways.

In all his twenty-odd years on the stage Buster has never suffered an injury. Many times, when a little fellow with his father, he was compelled to strip before officials to prove that his father was not practicing cruelty to his own child. Never was a bruise found. Two governors of New York state and one mayor of New York examined the lad because audiences stated he was roughly treated.

It was October, 1917, in New York City, that Roscoe Arbuckle, the screen comedian, saw Keaton, who, with his father and mother, was rehearsing for their act in the Winter Garden show, and offered him an opportunity to enter the film game. Keaton quit the show immediately to enter the film game. And he made good right at the start. Since that time he has been in motion pictures, and today he is a star in his own right, producing the Buster Keaton Comedies. So far he has never hurt anything but the scenery, a fact which may be hard to understand, for he is only five feet four inches in height and weighs but 139 pounds.

Buster has completed more than a dozen two-reelers since he has been elevated to stardom, and each one has proved successful following its release. Some of his most recent First National attractions are The Boat, The Paleface, Cops, My Wife's Relations, and The Blacksmith. In each of them he has found comedy in the most ordinary situations of everyday life. "Hard knocks of one kind or another have made most great men," says Buster, philosophically. "The only kind of hard knocks I never could get used to were those handed out by audiences and dramatic critics."

[forevertry79]

AVATARS 400x640px | Kyungjun (The New Six ) 

[yixinghoneybee]

Top 250 Songs of 2023: 225. By You - THE NEW SIX 😄

[strid3rofthen0rth]

Everest Quercus

A bone shuddering thud, immediately followed by an electric sting racing up through hands and arms.  The pause, surprise and awe that it did not go.  A glance filled with ill intent.  The creak of stained, heavy leather gloves.  Panting.  A deep breath and a little bounce, like a fighter waiting for the bell.  Finally, another swing, all the way from the toes, and Ker-rack!

There it is.  Now we're splitting some wood.

Splitting firewood is about the most rewarding work I can do on a cold winter morning.  The smell of cleaved hardwood mixed with sweat has been a touchstone for me since early boyhood.  Nothing conjures happy images of my father more quickly or completely.  My parents heated with wood for most of my childhood, as do I, so I continue to split.  Concerns of climate change not withstanding, there is comfort to be found in putting up for winter.  Canning, pickling, and splitting wood that we may emerge from the frigid dark once again, alive and raring to go.

It all began back on Maple Avenue.  I'd been an apartment dweller for my entire life, six years young as it was.  To suddenly have my own yard to dash around in, my own trees to climb, my own garden from which to swipe peas and brussel sprouts, was a gift from on high.  Then one fine autumn morning, a huge truck appeared out of seemingly nowhere, and dumped a massive load of white oak right in the center of my playground.  Another load soon followed.  Everest Quercus, a towering mountain of firewood.  Limbs longer than I was, rounds taller than I, heaped and tangled across the yard.  There were bugs under the bark and mud torn up from the yard.  It was the greatest thing I'd ever seen.

Choosing to invoke the selective hearing granted to all children when parents warn against taking certain actions, for days I clambered over and around it, sprayed the garden hose on the top to see where the water would come out, pried and pulled to see what was in there.  My jungle gym and fort, gateway to imagination, and the beginning of my first big adventure.

Soon enough, men I did not know arrived to help my father break down my fort.  They wielded chainsaws and cant hooks, wore long wooly beards over flannel shirts and pants so dirty my mom would have never let me be seen in them.  And they swung splitting mauls.  That sound of splitting the logs into burnable chunks -- half fastball jumping off white ash, half crunch of hard snow under foot.  The action, the dynamic nature of it all, was intoxicating.  I remember thinking there was a certain gravity to this new situation, though I obviously couldn't verbalize that thought at the time.  Something big was going down, and I wanted in.

So Dad would set me up with a stubby little end cut, the easiest piece to split, and start a wedge for me.  Wedges are often used in conjunction with a standard maul on rounds that are too big for the splitting maul.  And with six-year-olds.  He'd hand me a little two pound hammer -- I remember it now, a blue Estwing -- and I'd tink tink tink away at that wedge until I'd made my little split.  Or until I got tired or bored, just as likely.

I had to choke up on that hammer quite a bit with my little pink paws, and somehow, whether through exuberance or inattention, I finally managed to mash the tip of my right pinkie finger between the face of the hammer and top of the steel wedge.  I remember I cried at the sight of my own blood.  I remember my mother hovering somewhere between harried, concerned, and angry on the drive to the hospital.  I don't remember how many stitches I got, but they followed the blackened nail around the tip of my finger in a perfect tiny crescent, and I was chin-jutting proud of that in the days that followed.  I'd earned my stripes.  One of the boys.

That run to the ER aside, splitting wood has been generally good to me.  It's one of the times you can stand outside pouring sweat, the mercury burrowing below zero, icicles clinging to your beard, and not have to worry if the rescue plane is going to find you in time.  I like to unbend my back every once in a while, and lean on the maul.  Think about pioneers and lumberjacks and other manly stuff.  To feel muscled and strong, robust against the cold.  Like I actually have my shit together for once.  It's a chance to slow down and workout at the same time.  And if you practice long enough, you can ring the bell every time at the carnival, and win your girl a Bon Jovi mirror.

Some woods are more testy than others.  There comes a point in almost every session involving big wood when you are forced to decide whether or not you can carry on.  You have your wedge started in a huge round, probably for the second or third time.  This guy has decided to test you, deflecting your best attempts to cleave, stack, and burn.  You begin with some slightly tentative swings, making sure the wedge is driven, and all is right with the world. 

Now it's time to bring the pain.  You coil and bend, storing all the energy to be released in one massive effort. Getting your feet set, you begin that big power swing, the best one in your arsenal.  Knees, hips, shoulders snap into alignment as your fists slam together at the end of the handle, the head of the maul wails down squarely on the wedge, all the force you can muster behind it.  PING! 

Nothing... until, after a few moments heavy breathing, you begin to hear the faintest crackling.  The frozen fibers beginning to give up their bonds.  And you know, this beast will fall like all before him have.

It always amuses me when you see the leading man in a movie, lantern jawline and not a hair out of place, at his gorgeous log cabin, splitting up perfectly dry and straight pieces of maple for the fire.  They merrily crack and fly apart with barely a touch from the axe or maul.  You'll never see him sweating and cursing, trying like mad to extricate the maul from a gnarled hunk of burr oak.  It's Hollywood, where the girls are plastic and all the firewood is kiln dried.

Fir and pines are a walk in the park. They fly apart with happy ease, the chosen favorites of Instagram wood splitters everywhere. Hard maple, frozen, is among the most satisfying to split. It requires effort, but it will come apart, and the sound of a good swing on maple rings out clean and pure.

Among all woods, elm is my nemesis.  Like many of us who carry the maul and wedge, I can spot it in a wood pile from fifty yards.  Mocking me.  Daring me to even try.  I'm sure there are more difficult woods to split.  Ironwood can give you a backache just looking at it, so heavy and hard.  Shagbark hickory, with all it's armored bark as a warning, will test your shoulders and your will.  Black cherry strikes fear in the heart of mortal men.  But that stringy elm so tirelessly indefatigable.  So unrelenting in it's ability to hang together.  It seemingly wills itself to remain unbroken, the Nelson Mandela of the wood lot.  Many a wedge have been lost in a round of elm, waiting to be freed by the addition of another wedge.  And then another.  Until you find yourself berating an inanimate hunk of cellulose like a homeless wing nut cursing the weather and hot dogs on a street corner.

Swinging with precision is usually more important than swinging hard.  A few stretches before you get going will prevent a lot of soreness, even if you do look like a goober doing yoga in a flannel shirt.  Burn the elm in a campfire so you don't have to break it down as far.  And wood gets heavier as you age.  A lot heavier, but the pull of the wood lot is real, the desire to swing away, so we keep on going, chasing that perfect swing.