#the same thing goes for hippies & hipsters

[neechees]

Almost the entire aesthetic of cowboy fashion itself is basically appropriated looks from Native American fashion except a few things that coincidentally also came from somewhere else or were a result of acculturation (like chaps, but the design is startling similar to Plains men's leggings). There's "cowboy fashion" websites that just steal looks & designs from Plains Natives.

The leather clothing? That's Native. The fringe? That's famous in Native fashion, and in some tribe the fringe actually means something. The geometric blanket patterns? That's southwestern Native American & Indigenous Mexican weave. Turquoise and silver jewelry? Navajo have been doing that for thousands of years. Floral shirts and jackets? Also Native American, That's a standard old Native man essential.

It's almost impossible to dress like a cowboy & not be wearing appropriated Native looks

[vanfleeter]

Conjure: (Sneak Peek)

Twins.

Noun. A person or thing that is exactly like the other.

They were born into this world from the same womb–only five minutes apart. Two brothers who share just about everything. Everything they did was done together, except for their school classes. Too chaotic to be in the same class together. The only time they were ever purposely separated, and not by their choice. They made pact when they were young, that since they came into this world together, they leave this world together.

Twenty-eight years came and went in a blur. They survived significant others that came and went, some staying longer than others. They were each others ride or die, no one could replace either one of them. They had their own best friends, but they were each other’s built in best friend from the start.

As the years went on, and the older they grew, they slowly became their own person with their own identity. Though they share all the same facial qualities, Jake wanted to be his own person. He was getting tired of people confusing him with Josh. He especially hated it when Josh tried to pretend to be him. So he grew out his hair while Josh typically kept his short and curly. They mutually decided to dress differently, growing tired of wearing matching outfits that their mother would put them in. His style grew different from Josh’s. While Josh was more hippie and international, Jake kept his casual and laid back. He became the emo twin, the long bangs and the hipster clothing. Even their music style had its slight differences, despite growing up around the same genres.

They even had different passions. Jake loved music. He learned how to play guitar a very young age, and it was the one thing that he stayed true to. He had dreams of playing music like his grandfather, but he wanted to be BIG. Have a band, compose his own songs, travel around the world while playing his music. Josh on the other hand, he dreamt of producing films. Come junior high and high school, he produced a few short films with the help of Jake, of course. He was also into theater, unlike Jake. He loved to act, loved to the center of attention, whereas Jake did not. Jake tended to hang out behind the scenes, keep to himself and just not be bothered unless he choose to be.

And while Jake practiced and practiced to get better at guitar, he helped Josh make his movies. He even acted in them, despite being the one who didn’t want to act. But Josh was the director and the producer, someone had to be the actor. So when Jake wasn’t behind the camera and capturing all the good shots for Josh, he was in front of the camera and doing his best as an actor.

Eventually Jake began to form his own band and since he helped Josh with his movies, Josh returned the favor and decided that he would help Jake with his music. Jake promised him that once they made it big and Josh was ready to step down, he would help Josh again with his film. And so they did just that. They roped in their younger brother Sam who learned to play the bass and taught himself how to play the keys. Eventually they brought on a good family friend, Danny–who also grew into being one of their brothers. Family. That’s what they were, and that’s what they always would be.

And for the next ten years, the twins were still together. They even moved in together for a while, even with their significant others, because they just couldn’t separate from each other.

Until Josh made the decision to move out with his partner. “It’s time,” He said. “We need our own spaces if we want our relationships to work..” He patted Jake on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m not that far, and besides, I’ll give you a key so you can come over whenever you want to.”

Though they lived apart now, they still were inseparable, even when they went on tour. They were always together.

“Can’t get rid of me that easily.” Josh joked one night as he handed Jake a glass of whiskey. “And apparently the same goes for you.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Nah, we made a pact. If you go down, I’m going down with you.”

Josh chuckles. “That silly ole pact, Jacob,” He sips on his wine. “I can’t believe you’re still holding onto that.”

Jake shrugs his shoulders and sips his whiskey. “I don’t think I could ever live a day without you…”

Little did he know that living without his twin forever was approaching faster than he was ever expecting…

Coming soon on 10/1 as part of Jaketober 👻

I fear that I have missed some people either here or in the comments. If I did, please let me know!! Tumblr won't let me tag or comment people all of a sudden!! I do apologize!! ♡

@watchingover-hypegirl @losfacedevil @ignite-my-fire @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @writingcold @jaketlove @mackalah @lexii-nv-c @em-gvf01 @katiegvf @joshkiszkaenthusiast @takenbythemadness @jakekiszkasmommy @objectsinspvce @gvfmarge @heckingfrick @bluemeadows77 @laneygvf @gvfpal @killerqueengvf @jordinlkiszka @alwaysonthemend @hellowgoodbye @anythingforjtk @hi-hi-hello11 @anthemofgvf @gretasfallingsky @songbirds-sweet @wildbluesorbit @klarxtr @stardustsecret @sunandthemoontwinflames @everyglowinthetwilightknows @devilat-thedoor @sparrowofthedawnsworld @josh-iamyour-mama @dannys-dream @peaceloveunitygvf @hollyco @tinydancer40 @edgingthedarkness @i-love-gvf @thewritingbeforesunrise @katuschka @sammysstolenbirks @asendingtothestarsasone @fleetingjake @emojakekiszka @literal-dead-leaf @klarxtr

[palettepainter]

Dr Teeth and/or Janice

Had another ask for Teeth so sticking them both together here! Once again may be spoilers to Muppets Mayhem so be wary if you haven’t seen the series 

Teeth:

-While gumbo is one of his families favourite dishes since Teeth originated in New Orleans, he also knows how to cook other dishes famous from his home town. Namely beignets and jambalaya. Teeth is more then happy to easy fast food and sushi, but for special occasions or holidays sometimes he’ll cook up a big meal for the rest of the band 

-When he gets drunk he trips over his own arms, a lot 

-Inspired by the show but his accent shined through when he’s especially nervous 

-Again, inspired by the show, back when the band first started and sometimes in the present day he has a bad habit of sometimes being a bit of a yes man/people pleaser. A habit he got from wanting to make his parents proud of him. Thankfully the band are always patient with him, it’s often Floyd who lightly reminds him he doesn’t have to be anything special other then himself 

-If it wasn’t obvious from the series but Pansexual king 

-He and Rowlf are really good pals. They met on the road when Floyd and Teeth where making a pit stop for a few days to restock on food. Rowlf played in a local bar for tips as a smaller side gig, but it wasn’t his main focus in life. Teeth heard him playing and - a little nervously at first - approached him and complimented his skills. It didn’t take long for the two to become pals, Rowlf admitting that music just wasn’t for him because there’s little chance it could work out, Teeth encouraging him it could if he tried, and then explaining his story of being on the road with Floyd and Animal. Teeth trusts Rowlf almost as much a he trusts the band, he practically sees him as family for all the time Rowlf has been there for him (helped him out when he was drunk, supported the band in their early days, helped Teeth get out of a creative funk, etc) 

Janice:

-I like to think she came from two strict parents. Not controlling in the same way Teeth’s mum was, but they didn’t really get their daughter. Janice was a care free girl who, unlike her twin, struggle in school and didn’t get very good grades. This led to a lot of passive aggressive fighting between herself and her parents, with her twin often feeling stuck in the middle. Janice eventually ran away from home after a huge fight between her and her twin, leaving her family devastated (they totally didn’t spend weeks sick with worry, and her sister totally didn’t spend long nights crying in bed wondering how to fix things)

-I want to write a story of Janice and her sister (let’s call her Jamie for now) eventually reuniting. Jamie probably goes on to have a big career like her parents and is a lot less ditzy like her twin. Janice and Jamie at first don’t talk to each other, leaving the band feeling awkward when Janice (out of politeness, forced politeness) asks Jamie round for dinner. It leads to a conversation that gradually gets less and less friendly while the band look between them quickly growing panicked 

-Before joining the band she spent her days with a band of travelling hipsters, sleeping in pitched tents in fields of wherever their was room on the road. A lot of singing round the campfire, weaving flower crowns, spending lazy afternoons singing songs (skinny dippy-). Floyd and Teeth with baby Animal stumbled upon her camp while on the road and that’s how they eventually met. Janice looks back on those memories very fondly and views the hippies she travelled with as like another family 

-She loves camping, it reminds her of her time with the travelling band of hippies. Floyd isn’t as enthusiastic as her so he lets her take the reins with camping trips most of the time, he still likes it and Janice always makes sure it’s a fun time 

-She took to baby Animal right off the bat, loved him from the get go and still does to this day. 

-Want to know what other Animal she loves? Foofoo. With Piggy and Janice being close friends it was inevitable that Janice would meet Foofoo, and Foofoo loves the free attention. Foofoo also loves stealing away Janice’s attention and dotting from Floyd, which makes him so annoyed because that attention and hugs are rightfully his excuse me? Who does this rat dog think they are?!

[rachelbethhines]

Tangled Salt Marathon - Rapunzel’s Return Part 2

Continuing on from part 1 - 

https://rachelbethhines.tumblr.com/post/635068926214258688/tangled-salt-marathon-rapunzels-return-part-1

Summary: When Rapunzel tries to defeat the Saporians by herself she gets captured; but once Varian realizes that the Separatists plan on using one of his potions' destructive properties to destroy Corona, he and Rapunzel work together to stop it.

Let’s Talk About What a Let Down the Sapiorans Are

Throughout seasons one and two the Sapiorans were built up to be this intriguing race of people with a complex past and real problems that are sadly relatable to this day. They had a history, goal, motives, and special abilities like magic.  

Yet all we got was a really bad hipster parody. 

Heck, the crew can’t even keep it’s stereotypes right because they mostly slide into hippy territory instead. Hipsters, Yuppies, and Hippies are three distinctive counter culture movements for three different generations with completely different social concerns and fads. 

Basically Chris tried to “stick it to the kids” again and just wound up insulting his parents' generation instead because he’s that oblivious of other human beings.

And that’s not even taking into account that previously the Sapiorans were living on the run as nomads in caravans not dissimilar to common Romani stereotypes, so the show is once again making negative racial connotations due to thoughtlessness.

Why Do You Have a Secret Underground Room Hidden Behind Your Workshop Xavier?

Like that not a thing normal people happen to have lying around there workspace. We still are given zero explanation for why Xavier has all this plot convenient knowledge and rare unordinary plot useful stuff. 

Given his previous connection to Saporia and Zhan Tiri wouldn’t it not have made more sense to reveal that he is an actual plot important character in season three rather than keep him as just the exposition fairy? 

So Was This Before or After the Saporian Take Over? Cause Either Answer Makes This a Dumb Plan.

Why would the guards, especially Cap, just give up? Did they even bother fighting and then lost to Varian’s weapons or were they told to stand down by a brainwashed Frederic? If they knew something was wrong then why not stay and help? What makes them think they even could find Rapunzel given how no one knew where she was heading and her letters were infrequent? What difference would they think finding Rapunzel would do? 

Basically, just like with the “former cellmate” line, we needed to actually set up and establish this conflict rather than relying solely on exposition dumps. Because what we get here doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. It goes against established character and leaves a lot of unanswered plot holes. 

More Promotion of Authoritarianism From the Show

Remember that these are the same people who formed a lynch mob to hunt down a fourteen year old all because the king told them to. The same king who had been lying to them for years and placed their lives and homes in danger for months. The same king who persecuted the poor and orphans for years. Him suddenly sending townsfolk to the mines isn’t anything new, so what are these people’s breaking points? Anyone else would have revolted by now.  

But noooo, they need Rapunzel to do it for them. Cause Rapunzel is royalty and they can’t do anything without royal permission because they’re sheep. Sheep that’s been subjugated for years and conditioned to be afraid of their “beloved ruler”. 

I understand from a meta point of view why you would want your main character to take charge but...

Like this isn’t inspiring.

It’s disturbing. 

Why are we promoting blind loyalty to a person who’s not earned it just because they were born special? In a freakin’ kids show no less! 

Oh and still no one bothers to call out King Frederic’s abuses here, FYI. 

Take Note That Quirineon is Activated By Heat

This will be important later on in the review. 

He’s Already Built Grenades For You. Wouldn’t Those Be Better Because They’re Easier to Control?

He’s already built explosive chemicals for you. You just used them in part one of the episode. And it came in an easy to use form rather than an unstable, and untested, mess that could literally blow up in your faces since no one, not even Varian himself, knows how to control it yet. 

You Don’t Hammer Out a Cast Iron Pan

It’s literally in the word. To make a cast iron pan you pour the metal into a casted mold. You don't hammer it out like you would with a sword or something. And you can’t even go with the “rule of cool” here cause Rapunzel surrounded by molten metal and fire would have been far more impressive looking.  

Yes I’m being picky cause I’m stalling. I don’t care. This is just yet another instance of the crew not paying attention to details like they should. 

Behold The Final Time Eugene Will Ever Call Out Rapunzel’s BS

This is the last time Eugene will hold an honest discussion with Rapunzel like an equal to her. By the end of this episode he will have transitioned into full on doormat mode. 

Also burying negative feelings and not addressing issues is who Rapunzel is. She’s been pulling this shit since day one. It’s what causes 90% of the conflicts in the show. Have you not noticed Eugene?  

So This Episode Has Contradictory “Lessons” 

The episode presents this idea that Rapunzel needs to open up to others and trust again after Cassandra’s betrayal. The problem is that the episode doesn’t follow through on that. It makes a knee-jerk decision to go with a “responsibility” lesson that wasn’t built up to instead at the last minute. 

More on this later.    

Varian Doesn’t Actually Interact With the Saporians at Any Point.

The only person Varian interacts with is Andrew. We have no concept of how he fits in with the rest of the group and what his dynamics are with them. What do they think of Varian? What does Varian think of them? The consequence to this is to further divorce Varian from narrative, even though this is supposed to be his redemption episode. 

As I said in the last part, you can easily write Varian out of this episode and nothing really changes plot wise. That’s bad writing. 

Also I was robbed of Khary Payton and Jeremy Jordan exchanging lines. I was this close to having audio material for my BH6 crossover, dang it! 

Behold The One Time the Black Lady Gets a Line!

I think her name is Juniper? 

You can tell it’s her because of the shadow on the wall.

Anyways they casted this part and only bothered to give the character a single line? What a waste! 

But this just goes back to the series' poor representation. The only WOC in the show are presented as “shifty” and untrustworthy, even when they are ultimately “good guys”. The majority of them are straight up villains tho, and even as antagonists they’re not afforded any real screen time. 

And the only other outright black women on the show is the inventor lady who was given zero respect and the ghost of a barbarian. 

Once again, I don’t think the crew are intentionally racist. I think they’re just sloppy. They wanted to be more inclusive but they failed to actually give voice to minorities behind the scenes and so failed in representing them well. This is a problem with the industry as a whole, not just this one show, and must be talked about as such if we wish to change things for the better. 

None of this “Stuff” Holds Any Real Meaning

We get several callbacks to season one through Cassandra’s personal things that she left behind, but none of this stuff holds any real personal meaning. It’s just there. They wind up triggering these big emotional reactions from both Rapunzel and Cassandra but the audience is just left confused because what they’re crying over are things that have little significance to these characters. Even this line from season one is just dripping with sarcasm and not some pleasant past memory that either Cass or Raps holds dear to their hearts. 

Way To Go, Dumbass

It’s not that she went alone, or that she broke down when it finally hit her that Cass left, that I’m making fun off. The episode already addresses those two points. 

No, what ticks me off is that Rapunzel has taken down killer robots, ghosts, and monsters before now with her magical hair but a handful of regular dudes can just bring her down? I don’t care how much alchemy they got. Depowering your main character for no stated reason just for narrative convenience is poor writing. 

Because If He Didn’t He Would Have DIED, Rapunzel!!!

He literally would have freakin died had he not done something! He was left inside a jail cell to rot away! Before that he was threatened with hangman’s noose! Before that violence from an angry crowd! Before that he was left alone to starve and/or die from exposure! There was no way out for him except to fight! 

And here you are inside the very prison that you kept him in and you still don't have the fucking self awareness to put two and two together! 

This Right Here the Assassination of Rapunzel’s Character and the Killing Blow to the Series

Yeah, and what about after the storm? Hun, bitch!?

We’ve spent two damn seasons watching Rapunzel stepping on people and making excuses for herself and the one time when she should realize her actions are wrong and finally own up to her behavior and she still does not fucking change.

This is supposed to be a coming of age story! That means the main character is supposed to grow and learn shit! But when it matters most, Rapunzel only digs in her heels and refuses to change! 

Why should I care about this character anymore if she’s just going to keep on being selfish no matter what? Why should I bother watching the show if it fails to deliver on its premise? How is this in any way shape or form an appropriate message for children!? 

If you’re watching the series for the first time, then it’ll take awhile to register just how awful this scene is and how it really is the beginning of the end, because they did have time to turn things around after this. But they didn’t, and here we are. 

This Isn’t a Real Apology

It’s not a real apology if all you do is make excuses for yourself. Rapunzel doesn’t address what she actually did wrong here and it has nothing to do with her stupid promise. 

She neglected and enabled the abuse of a child for a year and three months, and she’s not even sorry for it! 

You Were Never a “Friend” Rapunzel

Friends, actually do shit together. They enjoy each other’s company. They care when the other is hurt or in trouble. 

Rapunzel only came to see Varian when she needed him for something. Even now, after this confrontation, that’s all she’ll ever do. She does not actually care about Varian, because the creators will not let her care. 

And Here Comes the Death of Varian’s Characterization

In order to make this stupid, forced, “redemption” work the writers had to do a complete 180 with Varian’s character and his motivations. Instead of freeing his father, seeking revenge, or just, you know, surviving, he now suddenly cares about “being friends” and “being accepted by people”, only he has no reason to want any of that! 

Rapunzel is a shit friend. Heck all the mains are crap friends to him. They ruined his life and the townspeople tried to kill him. Why would he want anything to do with any of these a-holes!? 

Varian doesn’t get assassinated in the same sense as Rapunzel and Cassandra do. He doesn’t suddenly become a hateable dumb douchebag or anything, but he nevertheless has his character retroactively sabotaged by the writing.  

Uh, Were You Not There When Your Dad Rounded Up a Lynch Mob Against Him, Raps?

I believe you were. Also Varian literally told you to your face that he had to go into hiding cause the townspeople were willing to attack him just because those rumors that you failed to stop and pretended not to know anything about. 

Just because the characters shout something repeatedly does not make it true. The audience isn’t dumb. They can remember what happened only two seasons ago. 

Where Was the Inciting Incident For This Change of Heart?

Why should he even want their forgiveness? Why has he given up on freeing his father? Why is he having second doubts about overthrowing the kingdom that persecuted him? 

If you’re going to drastically change a character’s motivations, goals, and moral alignment then you need to present an in story reason for that change. We don’t get that. There’s no inciting incident on screen for us to see the shift in his character development. 

The audience is left to only infer, and that’s poor writing. The audience shouldn’t have to do the work of the writers for them.  Characters’ motivations and goals  should not be guess work. 

The only thing we can glean from this is that he had a change of heart while in prison and that’s a horrifying thing for the show to suggest. That’s basically justifying Frederic’s abuse. It also recontextualizes Varian’s arc into one of submission to his abusers and not one of learning to do the right thing simply because it’s right. 

Once Again, Were You Not There For Season One Rapunzel?

They had a year and three damn months of chances. These people actively tried to do him harm just for simply seeking help. He has no reason to trust them nor you. 

Why Are We Shoulding All of the Blame Onto the Abused Child?

Yes, he did do all of those things, technically, but they’re being presented here without context.

The Queen enabled his abuser who was threatening his life and destroyed his home. He kidnapped her as a last restore when all other methods to get out of his desperate situation failed. 

The princess he threatened neglected him for three months and repeatedly refused to help him, even throwing him out into a deadly snow storm. Despite him being her responsibility, thereby making her neglect a flat out abuse of power.  

He would have died a slow and painful death in prison had he not helped to overthrow the kingdom that persecuted him. 

I’m not going to pretend that what Varian did was right or that he shouldn’t feel sorry for what he did, but this is a highly skewed version of events that are being recounted here just to create bias in the viewers. It’s manipulative writing intended to gaslight the audience. 

Also, why does he even want a second chance!?   

Doesn’t This Undermine The Saporian’s Goals?

The Saporians wanted to reclaim their ancestral homeland so that they would no longer be a displaced people. How does blowing up that homeland help them? 

Season three just throws all logic out the window. There’s barely a single villain who doesn’t undermine their own goals at some point with their stupid actions. 

So Why Varian and Andrew Not Some Other Team Up?

Out of all of the various recurring baddies in the show Varian and Andrew have the least in common. I’m not saying that they couldn’t work together, but doing so required more set up than this. Because as is, this is a very contrived teamup. 

They have diametrically opposed goals and moral alignments. Varian doesn’t bring anything to the table that the Saporaions couldn’t have supplied themselves. Meanwhile the Saporians have failed to offer Varian anything that he could want. 

At best it’s a marriage of convenience for them to both break out of prison together, but even that is contrived because we don't know why neither of them were sent away on the prison barge with the rest of the season one villians.  

Better combinations would have been 

Varian & Lady Caine

Andrew & Lady Caine 

Varian & Cass

Andrew & Cass 

Varian & Zhan Tiri

Andrew & Zhan Tiri

Varian & Hector

The Baron & Varian

Andrew & Staylan 

King Trevor & Varian 

Like there were tons of options here that the writers just ignored, even though any of them would have made more sense than the one they went with.  

The Andrew and Varian Dynamic Can Be Seen as an Allegory for Grooming; Unfortunately the Writers Didn’t Consider That Implication.

Yeah... That’s pretty much what Andrew has done here. He’s groomed this desperate and lonely teen to become a child soldier for him. And one only can only pray that’s all he tried to groom him to do since they were trapped inside a confined and enclosed space together for several months. 

Listen, I don’t mind children’s shows touching upon darker subjects. Often fantasy is a good way for people to process complex themes and uncomfortable real world situations through the safety of fiction. It can even be helpful for those who have had the misfortune to experience certain traumas. 

I’m not complaining that TTS is too dark. 

I’m complaining about it being shit. 

All of the crap Varian goes through is just thrown in there for shock value. It’s not here to commentate on the real world nor provide a complex story. The situations are brought only to then be outright ignored. This isn’t thoughtful nor deep. It’s not meaningful nor heartfelt. It’s just hollow drama done in bad taste. 

You’re Not In a Position to Judge Rapunzel 

You got captured first because you decided to throw yourself a pity party. 

Would He Though?

I’m pretty sure Quirin is very well aware of how shitty Frederic is. If anything I would think he’d be pissed that his son, that he tried so hard to protect, was mistreated in such a hordenous way. 

This isn’t some satisfying ending to Varian’s arc. It’s a heartbreaking revelation that he’s been beaten down by his abusers.  

Varian’s Arc Isn’t Actually About Validation, and Rapunzel Giving It Here Doesn’t Really Change Anything 

I spoke about this before on its own, but Tangled the Series places far too much stock in validation. Yes, it’s an aspect of his character arc, but it’s not the end all and be all of his motivation. It’s not the force that drives him to do what he does. 

His primary goal is survival, both for himself and for his father. His secondary goal is gaining his father’s approval, but that’s not because he’s seeking generic praise, it’s because his father is emotionally distant. The “validation” is a mask for the real issues which are to fix his relationship with his dad and avoid the guilt of having possibly killed him in an accident. 

Rapunzel has fuck all to do with that. 

He doesn’t need to hear approval from her. He needs her to get her shit together and help him! 

Rapunzel’s and Varian’s Situations Are Nothing Alike and Rapunzel Doesn’t Know Jackshit

Rapunzel you were dumped by your bestie because you’re a shitty friend. 

Varian was neglected and abused by those who were supposed to take care of him. 

Unless you’re drawing parallels to how Frederic and Gothel treated you, and even then neither of them denied you basic fucking needs! 

This should be an “Oh Shit! I’ve become just like Mother Gothel” moment for Rapunzel, not an “Oh yay! Someone to share in my personal misery” moment. 

Man, Rapunzel suuuuuucks! 

Also This Still Isn’t An Actual Apology

Once again, Rapunzel is not admitting what she did wrong here. She’s not actually acknowledging Varian’s pain, nor what she needs to do to make admins with him. 

What she’s doing is making things all about herself again. She’s talking about her feelings. About what she is facing. Rapunzel is an incredibly selfish and egotistical person and the show is trying to present this as a positive thing by rewarding her for such behavior. 

Varian’s Redemption Should Have Nothing to Do with “Friendship”

Varian has no reason to want to become friends again with the woman who ruined his life and abused him. 

But more than that, redemption shouldn’t be dependent upon Rapunzel’s friendship, nor even her ‘forgiveness”. Varian should be able to do the right thing just because it’s the right thing, Rapunzel be damned. 

This cheepens not only his character development but also Rapunzel’s development as well. Rapunzel is not allowed to grow as a person and accept that not everyone wants to be her friend, and that people may have valid reasons to hate her even, and that doesn’t make them evil. 

It also rushes through Varian’s arc undermining what the audience had to get through to get to this point.  

OK, Let’s Talk About The Goatee

I wouldn’t have minded the beard had it just not looked like a fucking barcode. There’s production art where it looks fine. But just wiping it away ties back to what I was talking about in part one. It’s denying Varian the chance to grow up. This is supposed to be his coming of age story as well but the crew won't let him do that because “rule of funny” apparently overrides what the characters actually need in order to develop.  

Once again, the show isn’t a sitcom. You can have comedic moments but the comedy doesn’t need to outright undermine the drama. 

Once Again, Shouldn’t Eugene Be the First Person to Jump to Varian’s Defence?

You mean the orphan on the streets who stole stuff and fought to survive when the adults failed to take care of him? Is that what you’re talking about Eugene? Cause if I remember correctly that was you not just three years ago. 

You Mean Rapunzel Needs Him To Make Her Feel Better About Herself

Spoiler alert, but Varian doesn’t actually do anything after this point in the episode. His entire “redemption” is just about making Rapunzel feel better about herself after Cass has rejected her. He’s literally become the rebound. 

How Come Varian Suddenly Became Shorter Just for This Shot?

I know the meta reason is to reflect that scene back in Queen for a Day when Rapunzel promised him that she'd help him before everything went tits up. Where he was also drawn shorter in that episode to make him seem more verunable, but here he’s just suddenly shorter for only two shots and then suddenly back to his usual height. 

Crap like this is why I insist that Varian didn’t actually get any taller in season three. The show just has always been inconsistent with his height and most of the “evidence” for his growth are cherry picked instances where the show drew him smaller than usual for reasons, like here.   

So Where Did They Get That Much of the Explosives and How Did They Get Them So Fast?

Only Varian knows how to manufacture that stuff. Why would he make that much of it if he was still in the experimental phase with it? He’s even surprised that they have so much, so where did they get it? If they made it then, how did they make it so fast? 

So This Plan Goes Nowhere

Spoiler alert: Varian doesn’t actually get to do any of that. In fact he’s kind of pointless for the rest of the episode. 

Why Would the King and Queen Care About a City That They Can’t Remember?

Like this revenge doesn’t make sense. It’s just a contrived way to get Eugene and Lance out of the way.

If the Quirineon Explodes From Being Exposed to Heat Then What Good Does Just Dropping It Do?

Yeah, remember? The stuff explodes when heated. Simply dropping it shouldn’t do anything other than make a mess on the ground maybe. 

All That Build Up and Varian Still Doesn’t Get to Do Anything Useful

Up till this point, Varian was shown to be the most competent threat in the show. Yet here they have him be a screw up twice in a row just for comedy antics and to glorify Rapunzel again. 

If you got to nerf other characters just to make your main look good then you’ve failed to establish your main character as being capable in their own right. 

Remember That This Boy Was Trapped in a Jail Cell With This Guy for a Year!

No, I’ll never be over this.

Andrew is the most directly violent and scummy out of all of the villians in the show. 

If he’s willing to do this now, if he was willing to do this to his ex-girlfriend, then what the heck was he willing to do when he and Varian were trapped alone together? 

So Andrew Just Willingly Sacrifices His Own People Here....Even Though His Goal Was to Give His People a New Home....

People need to use this gif more often when concerning this show and the villains’ ass-backwards plans.

And yes they survive because of Varian alchemy. But that was on accident. Andrew had no way of knowing that would happen. He’s willing to destroy his own people just to blow up his ancestral homeland and for what!? What does he gain from this action?  

The Mind Wipe Kills Frederic’s and Arianna’s Characters; Littraly

Frederic and Arianna are effectively dead at this point. Anything that made them, well them, has been wiped away. Their personalities, hopes, dreams, their on going stories and development, just gone. And we never get them back, even when their memories supposedly return. 

Varian’s Not Even Allowed to Get the Idea On How to Save Corona...In His Own Redemption Episode No Less

This is his episode! We’ve spent two years building up to this point and you can’t even let him help? He’s denied the chance to make up for his own mistakes! Just so Rapunzel can play hero and be a very shallow representation of what a bunch of men think a “strong” woman should be! 

It’s fucking insulting. That’s what it is. 

Making a female character the center of the universe to the point where other people are just props for her is not empowering! 

No It’s Not!!

Uh you wouldn’t even be here had you just fucking helped Varian to being with you dumb bitch! This is very much you and your father’s mess! 

Even now, while pretending to be responsible, Rapunzel can’t actually be responsible and own up to what she did! 

She’s fucking 20 and the 16 year old shows more maturity than her! 

Also Your Hair Can Protect Two People at Once Rapunzel; Remember?

There’s no excuse for leaving Varian out of the action. We’ve been shown multiple times now that Rapunzel’s magic hair can protect her and other people at the same time. 

Having Rapunzel Save the Day By Herself Undermines Everything the Episode Was Trying to Establish

What happened to needing to “trust again” and letting other people help you? Having Rapunzel save the day alone just tosses out the lesson that the show was trying to build up to. 

The show tries to frame this as Rapunzel learning “responsibility” but that also does not work. For one it was never established that she needed to learn that within the episode itself and secondly, she doesn’t actually do anything different from what she usually does. 

Being an action hero isn’t the same thing as being responsible. Being responsible is being considerate of others, doing the borning shit or mundane crap that you hate, and being mature enough to recognize your own failings and admitting when you were wrong. 

So in the end Rapunzel is neither responsible nor more open to others. 

And There’s the Death of Eugene’s Character

Lance, who has maybe exchanged all of three sentences with Raps, is more distrught than the guy that supposedly wants to marry her. This isn’t heartwarming, nor it is growth. It’s just lobotomizing a character right in front of our eyes. 

In this very episode he was worried about Raps going to face the Saporians by herself and was, guess what, fucking right to do so. But he doesn’t give two shits if she gets blown up!? 

Ooookaaaay.....

This is the completion of turning Eugene into a doormat. From now own he shan’t be allowed to have any thoughts or feelings of his own that disagrees with Rapunzel. 

The Eugene we knew is now dead. 

But Of Course the Show Rewards Everyone for Behaving In the Dumbest Way Possible Anyways

Don’t expect any of these grossly out of character moments and oxygen deprived logic to be addressed nor fixed within the show. The series will keep on shoving unearned endings into our facing while insisting that this is positive development. 

How Did Y’all Get Here Before Varian?

Yes, he was left on a roof, but he can climb and y’all were outside of the city. 

Yeah... A Year and Half Fucking Later!

Ok, a year and three months, but that’s still not any better. Worse, all this implies is that Rapunzel would not have ever concerned herself with trying to free Quirin had Varian not broken out of prison. She would have literally left them both for dead and we’re supposed to find her suddenly doing the bare fucking minimum heartwarming and inspiring?

Where Was the Inciting Incident to Use the Decay Incantation for This? 

How did Rapunzel come up with this plan? When did she come up with it? 

When the hurt incantation was first found no one mentioned how it could be used to save Quirin. No one even gave Quirin a thought. Since then the incarnation hasn’t been brought back up, ever. This is a pretty big leap in logic for Rapunzel to suddenly think of this. 

All it highlights how Varian was originally meant to be there to translate the scrolls and incantations in order to establish all this but of course it got cut so now it just comes the fuck out of nowhere. 

Not Letting Varian Have Anything to Do With Saving His Father Is Even Worse Than Not Letting Him Save the Day

This has been his motivation since the beginning. It’s been the driving plot for a season, and now that the time has finally come what does get to do? 

Hold a dang bucket. 

Part of coming up with satisfying endings is following through on what you’ve established. The audience needs closure. Simply freeing Quirin isn’t enough, we need the carthartis of Varian specifically fulfilling his goal. 

I don’t know how to break this to you Chris, but this isn’t Rapunzel’s story. Not this segment of it anyways. It’s Varian’s and it just so happens to connect to Rapunzel’s. She shouldn’t have been center stage for this. 

The Series Blows It’s Load Too Early with the Incantations

This is the last time we’ll hear any of the incantations sung on screen, cause someone in budgeting didn’t know what was important to throw the money at and what was not. 

It’s not bad here, but if we could only hear one incantation only once this season it needed to be in the finale with the final heal incantation. 

Varian Was Right All Along

Also, all this does is justify Varian’s actions in season one. Rapunzel was indeed the only one who could free his dad according to this. For a series that desperately wants to shove all of the blame onto an abused child’s shoulders they sure go out their way to prove him right. 

So How Is the Hurt Incantation Suppose to Work?

There were so many fan theories after this scene because Varian and Quirin don’t respond to the hurt incantation the same way previous characters had. 

No one is gasping for breath, Varian can touch Raps without burning his hands, and Rapunzel can control the direction of her power. ect. 

Turns out there was nothing there, the writers just didn’t know what the fuck they were doing and made the hurt incantation very inconsistent just like all of the magic in this show. 

BULLSHIT!!!

You literally turn into a villain because she gave up on you!!!!

She also didn’t give two shits about you throughout the entirety of season two. 

Why are we just pretending like season one didn’t exist!? 

Why!?

The Note!!!

No It Fucking Didn’t!

Does That Look Like “I’m Proud of You Son” To You?

Chris went on to confirm that, yes, the note did hold more information that then got cut. Pretty much confirming all that we suspected. That Varian was cut from season two and his story hastily shoved back into season three at the last minute. 

Below is the link to the tumblr post he made.

https://cnotes.tumblr.com/post/190534585146/apparently-one-of-the-writers-said-a-while-back

What’s worse is that his defense is such bullshit. The below exchange pretty much sums it all up.

This Doesn’t Actually Resolve Anything and Is Therefore Unsatisfying to Watch

Part of the reason why this conclusion doesn’t work is because it doesn’t actually address any of the problems that they have in their relationship. Quirin never owns up to what he did wrong. There’s no discussion of what Varian was up to while he was entrapped, no conversation about what secrets Quirin hid from his son, and zero admission of wrongdoing on either side.   

Also Varian has done nothing significant to earn those particular words. Saying I love makes sense, but in context saying “I’m proud of you” does not. It doesn’t even work on a meta level cause the episode prevented Varioan from accomplishing anything. 

It’s empty. 

There Could Have Been More Screen Time to Fix This If Not for Season Two Mucking About

https://discord.com/channels/427940661589704715/569296212218347522/777635115978457098

Above is the link to the original storyboards. It doesn’t fix everything but there’s a lot more satisfying emotional beats including adding Ruddiger back in who is suspiciously absent for the entire episode for no stated reason. 

This version was cut due to time. Which, like with the Crossing the Line song, didn’t need to be had they been more effective with their usage of time in season two. 

They also could have had a better conclusion to Varian’s arc in general had he not been cut from season two altogether. 

So What Does Freeing Quirin Add to the Series?

I’m serious. What does freeing Quirin at this point and time do for the story?

It doesn’t add any character development, Quirin just wanders around aimlessly in the background until the finale and even then his part in that is a pointless dead end. Varian doesn’t gain his emotional closure, just empty, hollow “praise”. Nor is he allowed to accomplish any of his established goals. No new lore or history is exposed. No mystery uncovered. 

There’s no reason why this couldn’t have been done later in the season. Provide more tension and keep up the consequences of the characters actions. Give the mains something to do and work on until Cass and Zhan Tiri show up again.  

The only reason why this is here is to wrap Varian’s story up as soon as possible so he won’t “steal Cassandra’s spotlight”. That’s it. He’s rewarded for conforming to Rapunzel’s will and all the fans should shut up and be grateful, at least according to Chris.

I Like This Song But It Wasn’t Needed

It doesn’t add anything to the story. It’s just a generic celebration song. Which would be fine if it wasn’t for the fact that we have a limited number of songs, even less than in previous seasons, and the story isn’t over yet. This is the wrong place to put a victory song at. 

Especially when we could have had a song that furthered Varian’s redemption instead.  Yeah, that was cut too. 

So Is Varian the New “Lance” This Season?

He’s right there! This is his dang focus episode! 

Why hire Broadway singers and not let them sing!? Why waste talent and money like that? 

Also These Lyrics!

Did Glenn Slater just not read the scripts before writing the songs? That’s all season three ever does! Give the mains what they want without earning it. Even in this very episode!

So Is This Rapunzel’s 20th Birthday or Not?

Ok I have gotten into many a heated debate about how long season three is supposed to be. And that’s because what the crew says doesn’t match what the series shows us. 

By all accounts this should be Rapunzel’s birthday. According to season two she’s been gone for one year, and there’s the lanterns that they fly specifically on her birthday. 

But no one verbally says it’s her birthday and I’ve heard conflicting accounts from different members of the crew. Some stating that it is her 20th birthday and some disagreeing that it is. 

Well I’ll take what evidence that the show actually presents to its audience on screen over what the cast and crew says after the fact any day of the week, so I’ll be gathering up this evidence and proving by the end that season three is two years not one. 

But the fact that I must comb through series to prove this, the fact that we can even have this debate, and the fact that the crew have to state basic info after the series is over is just proof of the bad writing. 

Fun Fact: Cupcakes Weren’t Invented Until the 20th Century

Yeah, that’s the fault of the OG film, and yeah it doesn’t really mean much, but still it’s one more thing to add to the pile of stuff that doesn’t fit. 

Plus I’m just a hardcore nerd for historical cooking and I like to share my knowledge.  

Yeah But How Can He Trust All of You Again?

You’re the ones who let him down first; repeatedly. And you only started to make things up to him once he became useful to you. What assurance does he have that you won’t mistreat him again next time he’s in trouble or is no longer of any use to y’all? 

Yes, Let NOT Show What the Main Character Is Actually Going Through

Yup, this is “Rapunzel’s show” but we’re not going to let Rapunzel have any focus on her feelings or give any insight into her thought process about what is the main conflict of the series now.

Conclusion

Ducktales was robbed! 

I can’t believe this shit won an Emmy for “best writing.” It utterly fails on every possible level. It fails to be a continuation of the ongoing story and it fails to be a stand alone episode. Even the very structure of the story is fundamentally flawed. The only reason why it’s not the worst episode of the entire series because the finale and the penultimate episodes exist. 

Anyways...I finally made it through. It literally took my entire weekend but I’m finally caught up. Next week I’ll be going back to the usual one episode a week schedule. 

[lucahqs-blog]

❛ ✶  —  did you see LUCA MARTÍNEZ walking around campus earlier ? i hear a lot of people talking about the TWENTY-ONE year old JUNIOR . from what i know , they are studying HUMAN PHYSIOLOGY while minoring in ILLUSTRATION and are a part of PHI KAPPA DELTA . they come across as + DIPLOMATIC but also - NON-CONFRONTATIONAL , which makes since because on their instagram ( LMHQS ) it says they are a LIBRA . when i see them , i think of LONG 2AM ROOFTOP CHATS, 100% GREEK & DEAD POETS SOCIETY CHAOTIC ENERGY, MESSY ROOM COVERED IN ART & PROJECTS, DOG-EARED TEXTBOOKS, CIGARETTE SMOKE. the most interesting thing i’ve heard about them though , is the fact that [  REDACTED ] , but don’t tell anyone i told you that .

hello, loves !! this bean goes by rue ( she / her pronouns ), and i’ll be playing this Mess™, luca ( with fc by froy gutierrez ). below you can find his bio, enjoy ! + disclaimer: there are mentions of mental health and cancer, so please read at your own discretion.

biography

When someone hears the name Martínez, they automatically think of words like prestigious, wealthy, and perfect. And who wouldn’t? With the father being a State’s Attorney and mother owning her own real estate business, you had to think like that. In the public eye the Martínez family was flawless. Diana was the always supporting wife who thrived in raising money for fundraisers and showing off her cooking skills and David was being a husband who brought home piles of money and was devoted to his family. Everyone wanted what they had. Luca Martínez was born into a world where perfection was of the utmost importance. The Martínez family are one of those prestigious families that has always been full of wealthy and high-class snobs, and Luca’s parents were no exception. He grew up learning how to be charming and handsome, and aware of his superiority over those of inferior to him. Luca’s childhood years consisted of him sitting restless at various fancy parties and dinners, while his father kept him from all the treats so that he would grow up to be fit and strong. Luca’s father was always cold and emotionally isolated from him; only after a perfect son to show off to the world.

He has brother, who is three years younger than him, named Nathaniel. His relationship with his brother, however, is a bit estranged just like with their father. As much as he loves his brother and wishes they could see eye-to-eye, sometimes they tend to butt heads often. Whether that might mean your typical sibling arguments or full-on blown out fights, they just cannot seem to see get along.

As a young, restless little child, Luca sought escape from his shallow, chilly life in the form of a friend. His friend taught him that there was such thing as warmth and friendliness, told him lots of stories of Greek mythology, and he learned that his father had been lying about “tactless individuals” being horrible people. However, when his father found out about his associations with his friend, within a week, the boy mysteriously disappeared. Since then, Luca kept all his unapproved-of friends to himself. Unfortunately, as time went on, Luca grew up to become a lot colder and more isolated like his father—leaving the feeling of pure joy of meeting that friend he met long ago, had vanished. With his family situation being completely dysfunctional and rottenly horrible, he never experienced what being happy was all about.

Sometimes calling someone selfish is a gross exaggeration, but in Luca’s case its right on-point. Eventually in his early teens he became distracted, always preoccupied with his own affairs and matters of interest. Whether it was schoolwork, his multiple and usually explosive relationships, or his many existential crises, Luca was one for waving people away and turning the conversation back on himself. This was not necessary out of narcissism or some hidden agenda: Luca genuinely does not know who he is. Perpetually fidgeting and restless, it is not uncommon to see him rapidly flicking a cigarette lighter, or playing with his hair, or bouncing on the balls of his feet. In high school he was brilliant: it was that simple. He was the golden boy. Prone to spilling into intellectual spiels - and labelled a know-it-all - he internalized everything, memorizing tiny details, eyes skipping here and there. His intelligence is among his most useful traits and is by far the thing he values most about himself. Much of his ego is built around the confidence that he is effortlessly smarter than almost anybody he encounters. Knowledge is power, and he weaponizes his superior intellect, using his brains more than brawn to protect himself and intimidate the people he does not care for.

Although his parents were the bane of his experience 100% of the time, his mother was not all that insufferable when she had her moments away from his father and not trying to be this pristine ‘perfect’ woman beside her husband. In fact, throughout his childhood she often encouraged Luca’s belief in extraordinary things and hoped he had carried it throughout his life growing up. His mother had always made him promise to have courage and be kind to others, for—as she explained to him—kindness has power, and that she would see him through all the trials that life could offer, in life and death.

Cancer/mental illness TW—when he was thirteen, his mother had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. Upon hearing the news, Luca’s whole world clasped. Not only was he at a pivotal stage in his life where everything was changing and becoming more stressful ( becoming a teenager, starting high school, going through puberty ), the only important person who had actually showed him any kind of love in his life had be claimed by the deadly disease altogether. So many thoughts and feelings were going through his mind at the time, that he ran himself physically sick and had experienced his first panic attack. He has since been medically diagnosed with panic disorder. Thankfully, the cells on his mother’s cervix were diagnosed at precancerous stage and the doctors were able to treat it because it developed and spread. However, that didn’t and doesn’t stop Luca from being in a constantly state of panic every time his mother so much as feels pain or coughs due to irrelevant reasons. The entire year had changed him and his family for a while.

He is now attending Beaumont University currently in his Junior year studying Human Physiology and minoring in Illustration. The university is his parents’ alma mater and he joined his father’s former fraternity after he was convinced it would be a ‘father-son bonding experience’ to have shared the same Greek house. Not to mention, his family has pretty decent ties at Beaumont, making Luca pretty well known become his parents. Sure, his family is wealthy, well known in the socialite community, and has basically grown up with this sort of life from an exceedingly small age, but to say he actually cares about all that crap is an overstatement. He is nothing like some of the spoiled and entitled students at his school and rather vibe with himself than gossip about the latest trend.

Despite issues with his own family, Luca has a lot of personal of his own he deals with. He is capable of enduing tremendous hardship. Though he may not handle difficulty in the healthiest or best way, often repressing emotion, he mostly like emerges on the other side. He does not know how to express his emotions in a put together way, but rather fumbles it all up and starts to ramble. Rarely opens up because of this. He usually distracts himself from his insufferable emotions with hobbies such as playing the piano, painting, and reading some of his favorite classics. After he moved out the house at eighteen to pursue college and became more independent, he started to come into his own style with his wardrobe. To put it simple, he is like a hippie dippy child of the universe.

No joke. No seriously, his place at home and his dorm is full of sensual shit and art. It is getting out of hand and somebody needs stop him soon. Catch him rocking the Greek philosopher and Dead Poets Society aesthetic around campus. He strongly believes that art is an umbrella term that relates to expressing of oneself—not just through photography and painting—and that everyone has the freedom to express themselves however they please. Because of his beliefs, he chooses to break gender roles like bread and wears whatever the fuck he wants because yolo. His appearance pretty much represents his hippie dippy lifestyle with him wearing all sorts of hipster shit. His clothes can be very flowy like, but don’t let that fool you. He doesn’t miss the opportunity to represent his upper class within his style, so he does dress to impress, let me tell you. His hair color changes sometimes too depending on his mood but it’s generally never too eccentric.

[princessamericachavez]

Fjorester Week | Day 1 | AU

“So, tell me again, why am I here?” Beau grumbles, before shoving a fistful of corn chips into her mouth.

Fjord lets out a heavy sigh, glaring at his best friend from the mirror.

“Because you love me and won’t leave me to go face my neighbor’s housewarming party on my own?”

“I don’t love you that much, big guy.”

“C’mon, what’s so bad about it? It’s a party. We’ll work on your people skills.”

“If your people skills are so damn good,” Beau shoots back, “why do you need me to wingman at all?”

“Because I don’t know anyone else there, and there’s gonna be free booze. Also, I already kinda put my foot in my mouth with this girl before, would really appreciate some help to avoid doing it again.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Beauregard sits up on the couch, grinning. “Mister Perfect put his foot in his mouth.”

Fjord turns away from the mirror to ignore the blush crawling up his face and gives his gym buddy a half-hearted glare.

“Oh, c’mon. If you tell me, I’ll go.”

“It’s not a big deal. She’s just... very enthusiastic. I went by the other day to pick up a package that’d been dropped at her place while I was out and she was very nice and she kept asking if I wanted to go in for a cup of coffee or water or something.”

“She was hitting on you, so what? Girls do that all the time, Fjord.”

“They don’t. Thing is... I panicked,” Fjord mumbles rubbing the back of his neck. “I think I yelled something like ‘thanks, I don’t drink water,’ and I ran away. It’s a miracle that she even invited me over today.”

“Oh my god, dude!” Beau chuckles, jumping to her fit. She brushes off the chip crumbs from her shirt and tightens her messy bun over her head. “This girl makes you stupid. I’m so coming with you to see it in person.”

“Thanks, Beau. Appreciate the support,” Fjord deadpans.

Well, at least that’s something.

Before Fjord gets a second to gather his thoughts, Beauregard knocks on the door. Even through the thick wood and the faraway music, he can hear the clacking of heels rushing to the door that swings completely open to reveal the party’s hostess. His next-door neighbor.

Jester is pretty in a way Fjord’s never seen before. Sure, there’s conventional pretty like the girls from tv, and there are hot women in magazine ads, and there are beautiful women in the street’s every day... but something about this girl just throws him off balance. It might be the blue streaks on her short dark hair, or her nearly violet eyes, or her tan skin covered in freckles like a clear starry night out at sea. Or it might just be the way she beams at him as soon as she sees him awkwardly standing at her door, holding a bottle of wine and a grumpy college student.

“Fjord! You came!” She exclaims, and he’s shocked by how genuinely glad she sounds.

“Uh, hi, Jester. This is my friend, Beauregard.”

“Friends call me Beau, actually.”

“Oh! Can I be your friend?! Can I call you Beau?”

“Uh- sure.”

“Perfect! Come in! Come in!” Jester grabs them both by the hands and pulls them into her house with a strength that doesn’t seem to match her tiny size. 

The inside of Jester’s apartment is different than what he expected, and somehow exactly what he should’ve imagined. Sure, it’s very pink and colorful, and lively, but there’s a refined style in the decoration that screams money and taste. It might be the same size as his place, but it feels far more welcoming and cozy.

“Come on! I wanna introduce you to some friends!”

Jester hasn’t let go of either of them. She pulls them along towards the living room, where four other individuals are sitting around and talking. Fjord thinks it’s the weirdest mix of people he’s ever seen in his life. One of them has long purple hair and hippy clothes —real hippy and not whatever hipster stuff kids buy in Urban Outfitters— and he’s giving a card reading to a man with shaggy red hair and an unkempt beard. They both sit on the floor, being watched closely by two women: one tall and muscular, with dark makeup framing her eyes, and one short and scrappy that keeps taking long swings of her flask.

“Hey, everyone! This is Fjord!” Jester has no qualms interrupting their reading. “Fjord, this is everyone.”

“Oh, hey, Caleb,” Beau’s voice catches him off guard before he can even say hello. “What are you doing here?”

“Beauregard,” the redhead murmurs with a heavy German accent as he stands up. “I am here with my friend Nott. She’s a friend of Jester’s.”

“You are my friend too, Caleb!” Jester complains.

“Cool. I’m here with Fjord,” Beau says, pointing at him with a thumb. “Fjord, this is Caleb and that is his not-sister but not-girlfriend, Nott.”

Fjord shakes Caleb’s hand, as he tries really hard not say out loud that Nott sounds like a fake name. The more he looks at the short woman, the more he realizes he might not want to know the answer to that question after all.

Jester introduces the other two people: Molly and Yasha. From the second the woman stands up and comes to shyly shake their hands, Fjord knows Beauregard is a goner. He shouldn’t be surprised when, five minutes later, she’s disappeared from his side to go follow Yasha and her purple-haired friend elsewhere. And so, he is all alone with Jester.

“You know, you look very handsome, Fjord,” she says, as casually as one would comment on the weather. “I mean, I always thought you were handsome, but you look even better today.”

“Oh- uh- hum... thanks, Jester,” he manages to get out, thankful for once that his friend isn’t here to laugh at his flailing. 

“You want something to drink?” Jester asks, and without waiting for an answer she grabs him by the hand again and leads him across the apartment towards a table filled with bottles and sodas.

As they walk, Fjord’s eyes trail down to her small frame. She’s wearing a sundress with a sunflower pattern, the thin straps of which leave her neck and shoulders mostly uncovered. He can’t help but stare at the sunkissed skin and the trail of freckles that makes its way across her shoulder blades.

“What would you like to drink, Fjord?”

“I don’t know, what are you having?”

“A chocolate shake,” Jester shrugs. She says it casually but he can see the spark of satisfaction that crosses her face when he reacts with confusion. “Oh, I don’t like the taste of alcohol very much. I mean, I’ve had some before, but it’s really not fun to me. I like sweet things better. Also, it’s very funny when you are sober and all your friends are being drunk and stupid, really.”

Fjord lets out a loud chuckle. “Yeah, I bet it is. I’ll have a beer then.” Nothing too strong that will make him join the drunk and stupid team.

Speaking of. He turns around and sees Beauregard and Molly already arguing loudly with each other about... something. Music, as far as he can guess by the way they gesture to the vinyl collection in the corner. Jester is watching too, smiling.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he sighs.

“It looks like they are having fun,” Jester shrugs, handing him a beer. “Molly argues a lot with people. That’s how you know he likes them.”

“A’right,” he nods taking a sip. Jester slurps her milkshake and Fjord almost stares at her until he kicks himself into making conversation. “So, Jester, whatcha do for a living.”

“Oh, I’m a doctor.”

“You are?” Fjord’s eyebrows arch, maybe a little too much. He can see a hint of offense cross her eyes. “I mean, sorry, you don’t look the way I expect doctors to look.”

“Why? Because I’m too young?”

“Too pretty,” he corrects, without thinking. “I- I mean- most doctors are, you know, cranky old men.”

“They really are,” Jester giggles. “I’m actually finishing my residency now, and then I will start my specialization.”

“On what?”

“Cardiology. I’m all about the heart,” she says giving him a wink.

“I’m sure you are,” he ducks his head to hide the blush that crawls up his face.

“Come, I’ll show you the house,” Jester gestures for him to follow down the hallway.

Fjord stops by a big framed picture of a movie star. He recognizes the seductive smile, the dangerous curves, the long flow red hair, the old-Hollywood air that no other actress seems to have any more.

“The Ruby of the Sea. You must really like her movies,” he points out, taking another sip of beer.

“I’ve watched all of them!” Jester grins. “She’s my mom.”

“Marion Lavorre is your mother?!” Fjord all but screams. Jester shushes him immediately. “Sorry,” he lowers his voice. “I just didn’t even know she had a daughter.”

“Oh, yeah, well... I wasn’t out very much, you know? My mom was trying to keep me away from all the paparazzi and stuff when I was little, so I spent most of my time with private tutors at home.”

Fjord isn’t sure how to respond to that. He’s not sure if he's jealous of the having a mother part, or saddened by the loneliness she describes.

“It was nice, you know,” Jester goes on, and he can tell by her tone she’s nervous as if she needed to fill the silence to justify her own past. He knows the feeling. “I had a lot of great teachers. I learned how to paint. I made most of the art in this apartment.”

“That’s very impressive, Jester. You’re quite an artist.”

“Thank you!” She grins.

“So why’d you move all the way to the east coast, then? Isn’t your mom in L.A.?”

“Well... it’s a bit of a complicated story, you know? If I told you I’d have to kill you.”

Fjord lets out a hearty laugh at that. 

“Hey, Jester, we are about to leave for the gig, you coming?” Molly announces a while later.

Fjord blinks at him, waking up from the past several hours where he’s enjoyed Jester’s non-stop stream of words. Time’s flown by and when he looks at his clock he realizes it’s past one in the morning.

“Of course we are coming! Fjord, you are coming, right? Molly is a DJ downtown and he’s very very good. Yasha works security in the club, too. It’s going to be so much fun!”

“Of course we are coming,” Beau gives Fjord’s arm a painful squeeze.

“Actually, I- Uh. I’ve got work tomorrow morning and-”

“Dude, you’re killing me.”

“Okay, okay, fine. I guess Beau will kill me if I say no.”

“I will.”

“Yes!” Jester jumps, clapping. “C’mon, everybody! We’re leaving!”

For the third time in the night, Jester grabs Fjord’s hand and pulls him along towards the entrance. 

Fjord meets a lot of interesting people at the club. Most of them he can’t quite put a name to, but he can tell everyone is happy to see Jester. He wonders, idly, if he should worry at all about the many guys tripping over themselves, trying to keep up with jester’s energy, but she holds on to his arm the whole time and keeps sending him smiles sweet as candy.

The only guy she actually seems to pay attention to, a friend from medical school who was apparently covering for her tonight. He looks nothing like a doctor either, tall, lanky and with a mohawk of long pink hair. He’s drinking something that doesn’t smell like tea and smoking something that doesn’t smell like cigarettes. But he’s nice.

Not nice enough that Fjord isn’t delighted when Jester pulls him away to a quiet corner.

“What?” He chuckles.

“I wanna show you something,” she whispers. If he didn’t know she’s been having chocolate milk all night long, he’d suspect her to be drunk. “Do you still wanna know why I came all the way here?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, entranced by the way her eyes sparkle.

With a tilt of her head, she leads him towards a back door. He follows closely. Of course, he does. At this point, he doesn’t know that he can do anything else. They exit to a narrow back alley, Jester pushes him against a wall and for a second he thinks he’s about to get a very welcomed make out session... but then she turns him around and makes him face the club’s back wall. 

There, on the brick wall, there’s a graffiti. It’s big, colorful, filled with sunflowers, jellyfish, a few little dicks hidden here and there. The signature reads: The Little Sapphire. 

“Woah, that’s-”

“Mine.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait. You mean to tell me you are Sapphire?!”

“I am! You see, one of my private tutors, he was an artist, and he told me people called him the Traveler.”

“The Traveler? People say that he’s the new Bansky.”

“Oh, Fjord, c’mon! He’s so much better than Bansky! He’s the best!”

“And he’s your teacher?”

“He is! Well. He was. Until I made this one thing in L.A... I had no idea that it was one of the big mob houses! It got all of the paparazzi attention and they got found out by the cops... So now these guys want me dead and I had to come here to lay low for a little while.”

“Mobsters.”

“Yep.”

“They... want you dead.”

“Kinda, yes.”

Fjord frowns again, feeling his chest knot. He looks at his tiny sunshine neighbor, imagines her in any sort of danger, and feels an old kind of fury burning in his veins.

“So,” Jester sing songs.

“So?”

“Are you gonna tell me what you are doing here? I mean, you are all mysterious. I see you come in and out every day, you work nine to five but then you spend all night out. What’s your story, Fjord?”

Deep breath. Fjord thinks about his past, about the orphanage, about Vandran. He thinks about his nightly search across New York, asking about a Texan sailor gone missing months ago under mysterious circumstances. He thinks about the Serpent mafia and all the danger he would put her in if he shared that with her.

All the danger he would put her in if he shared anything with her. All of the things already clouding his mind...

“I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you,” he grins, leaning closer. 

He can feel Jester stand on her tiptoes, her breath brushing his mouth.

“Hey, Jester! Come back in here! We are singing happy birthday!” Nott shouts from the backdoor.

“Coming!” She shouts back, pulls Fjord back and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. “You get the rest of that when you tell me your story,” she whispers, then runs away and back into the Nein club. 

Fjord stands there in the dark street while his brain tries to process what just happened. 

Oh, fuck him, he’s going to tell her everything. How could he not?

[wilwywaylan]

In only seven days (or the life and times of a sullen convenience store employee) - part 2

Fandom : les Misérables

Modern AU, mainly Montparnasse x Jehan Prouvaire, 7453 words

Poor Montparnasse is still stuck at his job at the convenience store, and people are still coming in, weirder and weirder. But not everyone is out to upset him, and he may even get some customers he might enjoy.

Dedicated to @kujaku-myoo, @jesvisfarovche and @aux-barricades

Part 1 here.

Also on AO3 !

- 

On Thursday, Montparnasse is surprised to wake up minutes before his alarm. He grabs the mirror always faithfully put on the box that serves as his night-stand, checks his face under every angle. Not a blemish, not a hint of a red mark. His skin is tight and as fair as ever, his eyes perfect, without the slightest red marring the white. He was expecting a bad night, what with that strange fever yesterday, and to wake up tired, disoriented, or worse, with a sore. Which would have make him call in sick, and then trouble would have been knocking at his door. Or Javert. Same thing.

This time, he takes all the time he needs to go through his beauty regimen, first for his skin, then for his hair, styling it properly. He ponders on the use of a little make-up, but that shop is not worth him putting his best. Mussed-up hair will do. A trip in the kitchen brings him only a slightly hit apple. Not very good. He takes it anyway. He'll have to grab some snack from the shop later. The owner will berate him for that, but he'll just have to bat his eyelashes at him to get him off his back. Montparnasse shrugs his jacket on, ignoring the shivers running up his back at this thought, and out the door he goes.

He walks through the streets leading to the shop, his shoulder hunched up a little to block the wind sweeping through the streets even as the sun is still shining on him. It's cold, fall is not that far away. He'll need a new coat sooner or later, something warm and solid that will last him a year or two. He glances at the students around him, eyeing their clothes up and down, but none of their pricey coats catches his eye. Some of them may feel warm, but they are horrible, badly cut, in horrid colours. Overpriced hipster rags.

Thinking of crappy rags brings the image of the person from yesterday to his mind, and he almost stops. Why is he now thinking about that hippie reject ? Probably that style. Those shirts were so awful they probably burnt his retinae, and he'll see them everywhere he goes, an awful plaid pattern overlapping everything he sees. He shudders. What a cruel twist of fate that would be. To only be able to see everything in plaid. Tartan. Tartan everywhere. He'd rather be strangled to death with a scarf made of synthetic yarn rather than live in a world of gaudy stripes. Well he'll just have to close his eyes next time Flowerchild comes in the shop, and he'll be find. If they do. Which they will probably. Not that it is of any interest for him, of course.

The daytime clerk looks at him funnily when he comes in, but he doesn't spare her a glance, just goes to take his place behind the counter. He ponders for a moment if it's worth ruining his hair with his cap. But he needs to be on his best behaviour, and it means wearing that horrid thing. He puts it as slowly as possible, trying to keep his hair in place. He'll need to check in a cooler door later if it's not too mussed, but he's sure it's still better than those last days. Anything would. So he puts on his most polite - well, his less aggressive - attitude, and waits.

And waits. And waits more. But the doorbell rests silent, as does the rest of the shop. It's... eerie. The neon lights flicker to life, instantly banishing every shadow, bathing everything in a crude, blueish light. Perfect, now I'm a horror movie, Montparnasse snickers. Still better than a teen flick. He wants to look as unimpressed as he can, but the stillness everywhere around him is starting to run on his nerves. It weights on him, and he suddenly feels very lonely and not that strong. The reds of a nearby pyramid of cans is assaulting his eyes, way too bright and cheerful. Almost looking like.... Don’t think like that. Nope. It's not blood, it's a fucking ton of coke, and you're not in a horror movie. Now stop being an idiot.

The scolding doesn't do much for his mood, but fortunately, the doorbell breaks the quiet around him, chiming happily when the door opens, letting a bit of the outside buzz, reminding him that he's not alone in the world. A whirlwind of colours crosses the door, and Montparnasse's heart gives a small tug. He ignores it ; there's no reason to be affected by the person (boy ? man ?) who just came in. Nothing interesting to see in a bundle of energy zooming between the shelves. Montparnasse walks back to the counter, as leisurly as possible.

The other is back two minutes later, with an armful of sugary snacks he dumps on the counter. If he was the least worried for him, Montparnasse would advice to cut on the sugar, maybe it would help with the bouncing ; even as he's just standing in front of him, the man - because despite the small stature and wild curls, it's a man, around his age - is almost jumping up and down. He's babbling, too, Montparnasse doesn't know if he's talking to him or just vocalizing his thoughts, but he doesn't care beside a very dire need for him to shut up. Why would he care about the person he's buying a snack for and who, if Montparnasse is following, is too precious a person to let them wait and can't eat some lower-quality chips, and certainly not those soggy peanut-flavoured thingies and blah blah blah. He needs to tune him out, or he'll probably strangle him with his bowtie. Yes, because he's wearing a bowtie. Montparnasse has to applaude his courage, because he didn't think people between five and seventy-five years old still wore bowties outside of the circus. He should introduce him to the other dude with his sweater vest, they'd look amazing together... except that not, they'd look awful. Awful-er. Not that Montparnasse cares, of course, he just wants that nuisance in a pink polo shirt out of his shop. 

Finally, finally, the pink babbling nuisance is gone with his sugary poison, and Montparnasse can go back to his... well, nothing, since he needs to wait for the next customer, and he really, really doesn't want to go musing in the aisles about how everything looks awful under those lights and a setting for a horror movie and... No. Better go back to fix his hair or try to commit suicide with a Mars bar wrapper. Anything to help doing his time faster. 

He's munching on his second chocolate bar of the evening, trying not to think too much about the telltale effect of chocolate on one's skin, when the door opens again, causing another little hitch of his breath. Because he's surprised by the violence it opens with, hitting the stand behind it, and the small tornado that dashes inside and out of his sight in an instant. Great, another weirdo. He really missed them. That one sounds familiar, though. And he thinks "sounds" because, like the one before him, he's babbling. This, and a glimpse on the anti-theft mirror above the shelf shows him a very, very colourful scarf. Very long. Cool. So Bandage Guy is back with a vengeance.

And with the whole stock of rubbing alcohol, more bandages, an elastic one for sprained ankles, and at least a dozen bottles of sanitizer. Montparnasse must make a very surprised -or stupid - face, because the guy stops his muttering to give him what could be an endearing smile if Montparnasse did have an iota of interest in anyone here. 

- My friends tend to get hurt easily, he explains.

What do you have to answer to that kind of things ? Montparnasse just shrugs, and hopes the guy is not launching in a tirade. He doesn't, just piles his stuff in the messenger bag that seems bottomless. He smiles again, waves goodbye and leaves in a whirlwind of multicolour yarn. Montparnasse just stares after him. What was that ? Why is that guy so cheerful and nice ? He almost sounds like he likes Montparnasse. Weirdo. But not really in a bad way. Not that much.

People come and go, after that, and Montparnasse is kept busy enough that he doesn't have too much time to reflect on his looks, the atmosphere of the shop, or people's clothes. Who is he trying to kid, he always has time to judge people's clothes. It doesn't ask for much concentration, and it's always really fun to do. Especially since the shop is located in what could be the most hipstery place in town, with all those students around, and the bars and shops and everything else that forms their natural habitat. Perfect breeding ground for hipsters. And thus, for some really awful outfits. But none to the level of combining several plaid patterns. Not to mention the denim overalls, the army boots, and the... whole of them. Luckily, none of his patrons offends him with their clothes as Flowerchild did with that outfit. Thank God for small miracles. But each time the doorbell chimes, his heart gives a little off-rhythm beat, and his annoyance level shots up. When will he be in peace ? Probably never.

It's a little past eleven, and the shop is a little less populated now. Montparnasse enjoys a bit of rest on his cellphone, when a flash of orange catch the corner of his eye. Immediately, he gets up and turns around. But his 

(hopes drop)

mood changes slightly when he notices that the hair is short, in curls, and very orange instead of coppery, and if the person is wearing plaid, at least it's only one. Okay, it's purple, and clashing a lot with the hair. But far from the train-wreck that was Flowerchild. He's smaller, too, but he's always been smaller, for as long as Montparnasse has known him. 

He doesn't move from his spot against the wall of cigarettes, but he gives him his trademark lazy grin, the first genuine smile he's given all week.

- Hello, Alexandre.

- Do not call me Alexandre, Feuilly answers automatically, but there's a hint of a smile lost in all those freckles.

- So, what does bring my baby brother in this den of... whatever ? 

- Do I have to remind you again that I'm older than you ? 

- Whatever. You'll still be my baby brother.

Feuilly rolls his eyes, but Montparnasse wants to think there's a fondness here. Well hidden, of course. 

- So ? he asks. What can I serve my baby brother ?

- Gimme a pack of smokes and cut the "baby brother" crap. 

Montparnasse turns to grab a pack. He's kinda amazed to remember which ones Feuilly prefers, it's been a while since they've spent time together.

- Here, he says, putting them in front of him. 

Feuilly grabs them with the hast of the thirsty man suddenly being offered a glass of water. He rips the cellophane away, then seems to remember that he's still in a shop and can't just light inside. Sighing, he puts the packs in his shirt pocket. Montparnasse watches him, amused.

- These things can stunt your growth, you know ? 

- Fuck you, comes the automatic answer, assorted with a raised middle finger. 

- And, Montparnasse asks as he cashes the cigarettes in, how is life treating you ? 

Because fuck it, Feuilly might be the only person outside of Patron-Minette he feels like making small talk with. 

- As usual. Lots of work, homework, lessons, you know the drill.

He shrugs, as if Montparnasse can't see the rings under his eyes. Feuilly has always been very ambitious, driven by his will to get better, to make himself a better place, by his work and efforts, while Montparnasse has always cruised by and opted for a life of leisure. He's tempted to diss Feuilly's efforts, tell him that he's killing himself and shouldn't work so hard when you can earn a living by just a flick of a knife. But he doesn't, because he does respect Feuilly, if not his choices, and he doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Also, Feuilly probably knows that he's working too hard and is exhausted, better than Montparnasse. So he just nods.

- Working where ?

- Library, mostly. The coffee shop beside the library, too. And a few shifts here and there.

- Got any free time, with all that ?

- I make do. 

- How is the art going ?

Feuilly looks pleased that he did remember, a bit puzzled too. Montparnasse pointedly looks at the ink-stained fingers. They chat about art for a few minutes, and Feuilly even gives him his Instagram to see what he makes, before the need of nicotine becomes too strong to resist. As he's turning to leave, Montparnasse notices the bright red pin on his bag. In white is written "les Amis de l'ABC". It rings a bell somewhere in Montparnasse's mind. Maybe he's heard the name somewhere, or seen it, or... 

It finally hits him : it's that stupid little clique of students that likes to cause mayhem in the town center, block everything with their protests and wave those stupid signs. He's seen them around once or twice, a bunch of students with way too much time in their hands, protesting this or that. They are led by a not-bad-looking blond who's always furious at the world. Montparnasse's opinion is that they just like to make life difficult for anyone and get arrested. He couldn't give two shits about them, but maybe.... He can try.

- Say, he starts in the most offhand tone he can find, still hanging around those students ?

Feuilly looks at him like he's searching on his face the reason of this question. 

- Yeah, he finally answers.

Montparnasse starts arranging the sweets beside the register, in the most casual way.

- Saw one of your friends, earlier that week. 

- You're gonna need to be more precise.

Feuilly's tone is suspicious, now. 

- Let's see. Tall, ginger, braid, dressed in the dark...

- Gingerbread, uh ?

He's smiling when Montparnasse glares at him. 

- I know him, yes. 

And he doesn't have anything. Fuck, he's going to play hard to get. Well, to talk. And Montparnasse doesn't know how to get the information out of him. He already got that the person in the gaudy shirts is a man, but he can get more. 

- Kind of a hippie, really. Who still wears overalls ?

Feuilly just looks at him, and Montparnasse has the uncomfortable impression that he's reading through him like one of his favourite books. 

- How about you cut the crap and tell me what you really want ?

Montpanrasse abandons his sweets to face him.

- You know what I want.

- Maybe I just want you to tell me.

- And maybe I don't want to tell.

- Then maybe I don't want to disclose personal informations about my friend.

They glare at each other for a few moments. Montparnasse doesn't even know what to say. They dress funnily ? I want to know where the last shop aimed at clowns is in this town ? I need to know their name to curse them with better fashion sense ? Not that it's a curse, but for them it'll probably be. No, that doesn't make any sense. He doesn't really know why he wants to learn the name of Flowerchild. But there's something in him that jumped at the occasion and asked, before he could acknowledge it and bury it in the depths of his mind. And now Feuilly is thinking things he's not supposed to think, he's having ideas about him, and Montparnasse doesn't like it. Feuilly is going to think he cares, he has an interest in someone, and he really doesn't. Not at all.

He's ready to jump on Feuilly to poke him in the ribs or some equally cruel punishment, when the door opens again. He doesn't look right away, because he doesn't want to give Feuilly the satisfaction of averting his eyes. But there's a new flash of orange, or rather, copper. Copper hair in long curls. Copper hair he's thought about a lot. Today, it's gathered in a bun, held in place with some kind of very fine net, the small flowers caught under the silvery strings. It's a relief not to see the dreadful assemblage of plaid, but they replaced it with a heavy cardigan in a very bright peach colour. Judging by how long the sleeves are, and how lopsided some parts are, they probably knitted it themselves. There's still some denim, in the form of cut-off barely reaching their thighs, leaving way to expanses of liberty pattern. Lots and lots of liberty patterns, spreading above on a shirt two sizes too large for them, and below on long, leggings-encased legs diving right into those army boots. They walk to the counter, politely greets Montparnasse, then start chatting with Feuilly, leaving him all the time in the world to look at them and wonder why his heart rate is suddenly twice what it was before. 

From up close and when he's not busy counting money and keeping control of his hair, his face and his speech, they look even more like some kind of badly-dressed fairy. The curls hanging around their face turn the ugly light into strands of gold. The freckles climb on their high cheekbones, gather on their forehead, and stumble down their upturned nose, because of course they do have an upturned nose. A touch of purple eyeshadow brings out their eyes in a way that's totally not interesting at all. With their shiny hair strewn with silver, and their long fingers waving around as they talk, they look like a fairy who'd lost their way and found shelter here, between the colorful candies and the drain cleaner.

Finally, after ten minutes of a chat that Montparnasse didn't hear, they hug Feuilly goodbye, wave at Montparnasse, and away they go. Montparnasse almost expects to see them float above the floor, but no, they walk in that fairy bouncing pace of them. He knows he must be gaping, and Feuilly is looking at him again, and he must look like some kind of very stupid goldfish, but he just can't find the will to pick his jaw up and get his countenance back. In a few seconds, certainly. 

Feuilly's voice finally cuts him out of his reverie.

- He really has an effect on you. 

Montparnasse wants to retort something smart, but he's still under the spell, and all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled noise. Feuilly studies him for a bit longer ; just as Montparnasse comes back to his senses, he gathers his stuff, flings his bag on his shoulder.

- Don't worry, he says with a grin that's not entirely sarcastic, Prouvaire has this effect on everyone. 

And with that and a salute, he's gone, leaving behind a smell of paint and cigarette, and a confused Montparnasse. Prouvaire. So the fairy is named Prouvaire. Probably a family name, since Feuilly always uses them and even insists that Montparnasse does the same. Then again, hippie child could have hippie parents, who would totally be able to call their baby "Prouvaire" or some other weird flowery name. Not that he knows of any flower named Prouvaire. Except one whispers a snide voice that sounds a little bit like Eponine, but he does a very good job of squashing it. 

The rest of the night is a daze. People come and go, things move, Montparnasse presses buttons and sorts coins, but he couldn't for the life of him recount anything. He must have done things right, because no one is yelling at him, or running after him when he leaves. He has better things to think about anyway. So the fairy is apparently a fairy boy, his name is Prouvaire, and he has a very cute smile and a very horrid fashion sense. Montparnasse still tries to think he doesn't care, but  he can't even convince himself. Fairy Boy has him under his spell, and he can't believe it. He has a crush. He. has. a crush. on some kind of fairy boy. who can't even dress himself. He doesn't want to admit it, he can't admit it. It's not possible. How can he ? They didn't even exchange more than two sentences ! And he doesn't believe in that "love at first sight" bullshit, because the world doesn't work like that. Maybe for other people, it does, especially when faced with someone as beautiful as Montparnasse, of course. But that's because he's dashing. But that Prouvaire... Well he's cute, there's no need to deny it. And he looks quite nice, friendly, even. And the eyes.... Okay, he does have a crush. 

And he's totally lost. What's one supposed to do with a crush ? He's always been the one people crush on, the one seducing everyone. Never has he been the one with feelings. He's supposed to act on it, that he knows. But he'd be damn if he knows how. The only solution would be to ask someone, but who ? It's not as if he's surrounded by excellent references. Eponine is forever pining after her Pontmercy (or after Cosette, he's not too sure sometimes), and it's not as if the rest of Patron-Minette knows anything about love. Or feelings. Or fairies. No, this is something he's going to have to deal with on his own. Fucking fantastic.

~*~

On Friday, Montparnasse is awaken, not by the sweet, shrill sound of his alarm, but by the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging around in the next room. Seeing as the soundproofing in their flat was probably made with butter or something, it kind of sounds like someone is digging a tunnel just under his head. He glances at his phone, groans. He should have been able to sleep half an hour more. Well, what an amazing start of the day.

He crawls out of bed, his eyes still full of sleep. The last images of the dreams still dance in his mind, blurry visions that doesn't want to leave him, despite the loud voice he can now hear through the door and wall. He makes his way down the cramped hallway, and barges in the living room. Babet doesn't even look up, sprawled as he is on the sagging, lumpy couch.

- Why don't you just shut up and work, kid ?

Claquesous, lying on the ground in front of their old battered wardrobe, sends a nod to Montparnasse, and gets back to dig in. 

- Can you tell me what's the ruckus and why you think it's a good idea to ruin my beauty sleep by yelling so early ?

- It's 7 PM, Babet answers. As for your beauty sleep...

Montparnasse sends him a glare scary enough to send lessen men running and crying to their mothers, but Babet is used to it and just turns his attention to Claquesous, who's trying to pull something out of the lower door. Seeing as he's not going to get an answer, Montparnasse makes his way to the kitchen. Of course, there's no coffee left, and he has to make some more. Scoundrels, all of them. You can't even count on your partners in crime to leave you some coffee. Talk about a tight knit group.

He's walking back to the living-room when something white runs through his legs, almost knocking him down. He hardly prevents his cup from tipping over, then the thing has already disappeared. Immediately after, Claquesous rams into him, sending his coffee on his shirt. This time, he drops the cup, trying to get the cloth off before it burns him. Claquesous doesn't wait for him to exact revenge, and runs after the intruder. 

After a long string of curses, and once he's not in danger of being badly burnt anymore, Montparnasse turns to Babet, who hasn't moved an inch. 

- What the fuck ? he asks eloquently.

- Do not fucking swear.

- What the fucking fuck is that fucking thing, and what does it do here, and what is that fucking mess ?

- Remind me to wash your mouth with soap, kid.

Montparnasse kicks him when he walks by him, and goes to rummage through a pile of clothes and other things in the corner of the room, trying to find something correct to wear. Throwing Gueulemer's gigantic shirts and Babet's hideous purple tees aside, he asks again :

- So ? What was that ?

- Something went awry.

- No shit. I could have guessed that myself.

Montparnasse waits, but nothing more comes. Usual with Babet. He probably messed up and doesn't want to acknowledge it. He won't say anything, not even under threat of torture.

Claquesous walks in five minutes later, out of breath and empty handed. Montparnasse looks at him and raises a quizzical eyebrow. Instead of answering, Claquesous turns to Babet.

- It escaped.

- Told you.

- Yes, well, maybe it wouldn't have if you had done anything else than sitting there.

- I brought it here. The rest was up to you.

- Excuse me, Montparnasse cuts them, but could someone tell me what happened before I start kicking your ass ?

- You're welcome to try, kid.

- It happened, Claquesous explains, that Babet here decided that stealing expensive things would be a good way to earn a bit of money. Trafficking goods is always a sure value. Sadly, he decided that the most expensive thing he could be his hands on was a goose.

There's a very long, very heavy silence.

- A what ? Montparnasse finally asks.

- A goose.

He turns towards Babet.

- You stole a goose.

- Yes, kid. I stole a goose.

- What in heaven's sake went through that brain of yours to steal a goose ?

- It was a very prized goose. Important bird. 

- So you decided to steal it.

- Do you know what "prized" and "expensive" mean, kid ?

Montparnasse is ready to bite, but Claquesous doesn't let him.

- The thing that he didn't take in consideration is that this bird is a real nuisance. As soon as it was here, it started pushing things off the table and pulling every cable it could put its beak on. Then it hid in the cupboard and... well, you know the end.

- And now ? Babet asks. Where is that fucking thing ?

- Away. It jumps through the window, and went down the emergency ladder with its little flappers. And if you want to run after it, please, be my guest. But I'm not going near that thing again. Ever. It bites.

- Scared of the little bird, maybe ?

Claquesous answers by a very rude and very creative gesture. Babet shrugs and lays down on the couch again, muttering about kids and missed opportunities. Montparnasse finally unearths a shirt out of the laundry pile, and puts it on. It's a bit rumpled, and it's not that young, but it'll do. The ruffles around the neck are a nice touch. Not that he needs to wear his Sunday best to go to work, but the Devil and seduction have this in common that they are in the details. And Montparnasse is always ready to seduce. He throws his jacket on and leaves, abandonning Claquesous, Babet and Gueulemer to their goose problems.

The other clerk looks at him funnily when he strolls in, but he doesn't pay her any attention. Can't he look good ? One can manage a register and not look like a bum. Sadly, he remembers too late that all those goose shenanigans early in the evening didn't gave him the opportunity to get properly ready. A glance in the nearest reflection surface tells him that his skin hasn't been properly moisturised, and his hair is sticking in every direction, to the point that he looks like someone has glued a hedgehog to his head. To think that he's crossed town like this !! Any lesser man than him would probably hide in the back to try and fix that disaster with fingers and water. Not Montparnasse. He pulls the emergency set he always has on his bag, and sets to work. He'll never congratulate himself enough for thinking of keeping some gel, a comb and a bottle of moisturiser on him after last time's disaster. He's still lacking his hair products and favourite cream, but he can't really afford to buy a second jar just to keep in his bag. The basics will have to do. Finally, he's back to his beautiful self, and he can go back to lean on the counter and wait, knowing that he looks his best. 

It's around nine o'clock when the door opens, and who comes in, but none other than the man that Eponine is pining after, Marius "Dork in love" Pontmercy. Montparnasse doesn't sneer at him, but he thinks about it very hard. The boy is cute, in a way. A face that can be looked at, clear eyes, healthy hair that deserves a cut. If only he didn't dress like a dork. Old sweaters are only endearing to one's grandmother, and his shoes are worn. There's also the small problem of his expression ; he always looks like he just fell from a cloud or just came out after being locked in a cave for twenty years. All in all, Eponine could do worse. She could do better, of course, but he's not going to tell her that.

He's not on his own, there's a girl with him, and Montparnasse is ready to hate them just because of the way Pontmercy looks at her. Also, she's pretty. Long, brown hair, very shiny, gathered in a bun, a skin to die for, eyes blue as the sky. Her outfit is not something out of the extraordinary, just a blue sundress and a leather jacket, with a pair of boots. But she has customized it well, and there's something in the way she walks... Montparnasse understands a little better now. Not that he wants to be even a second in Pontmercy's mind, but... that girl has something. She's special. And Pontmercy probably things the same, because he's giving her the most disgusting puppy eyes as she goes through the shelves. He's almost drooling at the sight. That dude's self-respect is probably nil. It's almost embarrassing. Montparnasse can only congratulate himself that's he's not as pathetic. He'd rather wear an ugly Christmas sweater, complete with fake antlers, and let people take pics than act like him.

Up close, it's even more obvious. That the girl is charming, first. Her make-up is a work of art, Montparnasse, as an aesthete, can see it. He's never seen sharper eyeliner, except maybe in his mirror, and that's not even sure. She's all smiles while she pays, but he doesn't let it fool him. Should he disrespect her, he'd get his ass kicked in no time. It's also obvious that Pontmercy is head over heels for her. He's still looking at her and only her, and almost trips on his own feet to carry her purchase. Disgusting, but he can't blame him as much as he would like to. Of course, he's an idiot, and he can't see that his best friend has a crush on him, but the girl is worth it. Which makes things so much more complicated. He probably won't tell Eponine that he saw them, he doesn't want to hurt her feelings. Or think about that idiot in love again. Surely that was the worst of the evening.

He's wrong, of course.

He's known Grantaire for a while now, meeting him here and there. They tend to frequent the same places where one can find cheap alcohol, cheaper entertainment and wallets without surveillance. They are what one could consider good acquaintances. Not friends, of course, Montparnasse doesn't do friends. But he's part of the very exclusive group of people that Montparnasse doesn't mind spending some time with, even if it's just to pass the time. And Grantaire is not that bad of a company. He has a tendency to ramble for hours on end if one lets him, about everything and anything that crosses his mind, ranting about things and waxing poetry at the same time. He can be annoying sometimes when his ravings lead him in the direction of some blond guy that leaves in his general area and he becomes downright lyrical, but Montparnasse has learnt to tune him out quite effectively. It's still not worse than Babet. 

It's no wonder that Grantaire pushes the door of the shop a little after eleven. It's probably the only one where one can find alcohol at this hour without paying the extremely steep prices in bars around. Grantaire probably needs his daily dose of poison, and discovered too late that his bottles are empty. It's just surprising that he didn't see him earlier. Or more often. But when Grantaire emerges, his arms are full of bottles of lemonade and white-chocolate-coated biscuits. He smiles at Montparnasse, his usual lazy smile, but there's something else in it. 

- See that ? he remarks. I'm straightening my act. Soon I'll even be respectable. 

- You, respectable ? Does this mean I finally became the Queen of the Underworld ?

- What you do during your free time doesn't concern me. But yeah, I'm cleaning up. Lemonade from now on. 

- You became allergic to alcohol or something ? 

Grantaire throws his head back and laugh. Montparnasse is a bit afraid that he's going to launch in a tirade about his blonde and how he doesn't like to see him drinking or whatever. But he has to ask something so it's not awkward. That's what not-friends-but-quite-acquainted do.

- Ah no, Grantaire answers. That would be the bane of my existence. No, I've taken up drawing again, and I can't do both. It messes with my hand. 

Montparnasse diligently looks at the hand he's shown. There are some drops of paint here and there, but remarkably steady. He must look a bit confused, because Grantaire explains :

- For drawing.

Ah yes. Montparnasse remembers  his tendency to draw on everything he can put his hands upon : tablecloths, napkins, receipts, people, .... Montparnasse once got a black rose on his arm, and he was almost sad to see it go. Grantaire sometimes talks about art school and how he spent his time sleeping and stealing the models ("food models" he always specifies with a wink), but it's been a while since he last mentioned it. He must have started again. Then again, either this, or he loves rolling around in paint in his free time. His hoodie was probably green at some point, but it's so stained in paint of all colours that it looks like a unicorn vomited on him. Even his jeans are multicoloured. Montparnasse doesn't want to know how he does it, but it's impressive. In a way.

- So what are you doing ? 

The door opens again as Montparnasse listens to Grantaire talk about the painting he started, while ringing the biscuits. He doesn't pay him attention, but Grantaire does, because his speech abruptly ends in a weird, strangled sound. Ah. So this is the man he can't shut up about, except of course when said man is around, the leader of the revolution or whatever. Montparnasse has heard so much about him, he's kind of imagined some sort of god carved out of stone, ready to step down from his pedestal, lightning bold in one hand and sword in the other to smithe down his enemies. To see the man in flesh is.... underwhelming. First, he's... tiny. Like, 50 pounds soaking wet. He doesn't look a day older than seventeen, except that Grantaire wouldn't be head over heels for someone so young, and he may have mentioned one day that they were around the same age. He's cute, Montparnasse hates to concede that, with round cheeks, a small mouth with plump lips, large blue eyes lined with long lashes, and long, blond hair barely held in a ponytail. A pretty face, but nothing to write home about. 

Montparnasse steals a glance while the blond goes through the aisles, trying not to be noticed. Then again, compared to Grantaire who seems transfigured by the apparition, anything would be discreet. The guy is more a pretty doll than a vengeful god, but he could be so much better if he wasn't scowling at labels as if they personally offended him, or if there weren't purple shadows under his eyes. Boy probably thinks so much about justice and things that he only sleeps three hours per night. So much for his beauty sleep. And from here, his hair looks... frizzy. Did no one talk to him about conditioner ? It's a shame, really, a waste of pretty blond hair. 

When he finally comes to the register, Montparnasse can attest how tiny he really is. Grantaire could lean his chin on the top of his head. Judging by the way he gazes at him, he probably dreams of doing it. Blond Guy doesn't even pay Montparnasse any attention, the nerve, and starts chit-chatting with Grantaire, who looks like Christmas came early. Montparnasse starts ringing the purchases, and takes advantage of the distraction to better observe him. He may not look the part of the Sun deity, but... there's something, now that he's talking, that draws the eye to him. Some kind of... magnetism, even as he talks about nonsense, meetings, weather and the like. Something that pushes people to listen to him. Montparnasse understands a little better what Grantaire can see in him now. His words are convincing, full of fire, and Montparnasse almost wants to join his little clique of students. Almost, of course. Not that he cares. But Blond Guy is convincing.

Finally, as Montparnasse is sure he can't take any more blinding idealism, Blondie gathers his stuff, nods goodbye and leaves. Grantaire and Montparnasse both watch him go, Grantaire with starry eyes, Montparnasse with surprise. The blond hair might look frizzy and in need of a good mask, but it falls down to the small of his back in heavy curls, like a golden cascade. Montparnasse is proud of his hair, how soft he is, and he can't help but feel a little jealous. He turns to Grantaire, who hasn't lost the smitten expression, and remarks :

- I can see why you like to see him. 

- If you fancy him, we may have to duel at dawn, you now.

- As if, Montparnasse scoffs. I just said I see why you like to see him. Or rather, see him go. Does he need assistance to take those jeans off ? 

Grantaire scowls, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

- I have to concede, those jeans fit him perfectly. 

- Does he really wear some ? They look... painted on.

- That, my good man, is a secret only he knows. Well, I'd like to talk about Enjolras' pants all night, and everything that's insde them, but I'm afraid that won't do any good to my work. So see you at the next biscuit shortage.

He takes his snacks and leaves, in a pace slightly faster than usual. Probably to catch up with Blondie and try to seduce him with white chocolate or talk of paintings. Montparnasse doesn't think it'll work, not with what he's seen of Blondie. But Grantaire's awful pining none of his business, after all.

Hours pass, slowly as ever. Montparnasse has taken residence in the newspaper section, reading each and every fashion magazine he can put his hands upon. With a bunch of chocolate bars and a cup of coffee from the machine in the back, it's almost comfortable. He only moves from his spot when the door opens again. And Prouvaire comes in. This time, they're dressed almost like a normal person, with cargo pants and a denim shirt open on a black t-shirt. Of course, the pockets on the pants have apparently been collected on several pants, shirts, and jackets, and sewn here and there, and no one is the same colour as the others. The denim has been embroidered with multicolour lines forming delicate arabesques on the collar and the sleeves. It's almost underwhelming that his black shirt is only wearing a Ghostbusters logo, and nothing weirder. Furthermore, their hair has been gathered in a hasty ponytail, far from the elaborate hairdos they sported the two first times. They look like they had to run to the store and just threw on whatever was at hand.

They are back at the counter barely two minutes after coming in. With three large bags of coarse salt. Montparnasse wonders what their cooking must taste like, but he doesn't say anything. Not when Prouvaire looks so rushed, and almost... out of breath ? It can't be from running through the aisles, they must have been speeding to come here too. But what could deserve so much salt ? Are they so bitter about something ? Do they need to fight a sudden ice age in their fridge ? 

They're looking at him. Oh no, they are looking at him, with those pretty eyes of them. Like they can read through his mind and know that he's wondering about them. Quick. Say something. Say something cool. 

- French fry emergency, maybe ?

Oh great. Bravo, Montparnasse. This is smooth. But Prouvaire smiles at this, and it's beautiful even if it's tired. 

- I'm not part of the French Salt Connection, if you're wondering.

- French fries are belgian.

Even better. Just shut up before say anything more stupid. If you can. He tries not to facepalm too hard. But Prouvaire just keeps smiling.

- I know, they say softly. 

Montparnasse knows he should shut up, but he just can't help himself. 

- So ? An emergency exorcism, maybe ? 

He laughs, to show that he's not serious. But Prouvaire's face stays serious. They gather their salt packets, give Montparnasse a new, soft smile. 

- Good night, Montparnasse.

They have a second of hesitation, then they hand him one of the packets.

- Here. It doesn't hurt to have something to protect yourself with.

And with this, they are gone, their long hair flowing behind them. Leaving behind a very bewildered Montparnasse and a packet full of coarse salt. Montparnasse looks at the packet, but it's, of course, a packet, made of cardboard and full of salt and nothing else. It doesn't even have googly eyes stuck on it to make it look like something else that this : a packet of salt. How it can protect him, he can't say. Or what he's supposed to do. What he knows is that the person who's been haunting his daydreams for several days now just gave him a present, and, according to what they said, they might be partially or totally fae. Which means that, if he accepts their present, he's doomed to... something, he's not really sure. He needs to brush up on his fae knowledge. Then again, it's a packet of salt, nothing more. Then again, it's a present. 

When he goes home that morning, the salt is stuffed at the bottom of his bag. He tiptoes through the flat as to not warn the others of his presence. It's useless because they are snoring so loudly he could tap-dance through the hallway while singing the entirety of The Phantom of the Opera, and they wouldn't notice a thing. He makes his way to his room, manages to go through his whole beauty regime without  being disturbed. With great delight, he slides under the covers. Just before turning off the light, he grabs the cardboard box still in his bag, and puts it on the night-stand. Then he turns on his other side and tries to forget that he did in the fog of sleep.

[soulvomit]

My reference for counterculture, is what was dying by the 1980s.

I know so many old hippies and old civil rights activists who are activists *now.* But they don’t hang out on Tumblr and talk to young people. Those among them who are living, who stayed active, are still fighting. 

They don’t have the energy to protest anymore. The changing politics, in some cases, may have made some feel unsafe (because so very many old counterculturalists were Jewish. They grew up significantly less privileged than their own offspring would. Many grew up poorer and more adjacent to POC communities than to white ones. There really was a time when the stereotypical Jew was a poor pickle salesman or textile worker.) 

They are invisible to all of you because they are at the polling places. They are at city council meetings, agitating. 20 years ago, they were the STILL the ones organizing our protests. They were the ones running the stores and the coffeehouses that were the locus of underground Gen X life. They ran the tattoo parlors in which the lot of us set up our piercing business in. They had to publish their writings next to porno mags or in magazines that advertised sex businesses. And the oldest of them had to meet in illegal spaces.

And if you are LGBT then your spiritual grandmothers and grandfathers met in basements and mafia-run establishments, and had to constantly evade the police. 

There were a lot of Jews in counterculture and protest culture. Jews of that generation marched for Black causes because they were adjacent communities. They were often redlined into the same neighborhoods. Adjacence doesn’t mean you are best friends. It means you have the same enemies. 

Counterculture people in general were counterculture BECAUSE they were marginalized, they were not marginalized because they were counterculture.

They were not rich. They were not affluent hipsters with tattoos, they were not middle class Hot Topic teens with anime backpacks. They often went to jail. The older of them were poorer still and often died of that poverty. The POC among them often died or went to jail. 

They were often disabled. They were often mentally ill. Their lives were often hard. Many of them were very educated, because you can come from a family that avails you of that and STILL end up a marginalized outcast. So we have the image of the well-spoken counterculturalist who is simply weird and has dropped out of society. A lot did not drop out of society. Society kicked them out.

They were often neurodivergent. There were no words for this back then. There were simply histories of institutionalization for misdiagnosed mental health conditions.

My mother (born 1952) grew up a poor Jew in Venice, California. Venice started off with poor Black people redlined into what was the region’s most undesirable area, poor Dustbowl survivors, and poor, elderly Jews who had also been redlined into the area. Venice was where poor people lived. Police were *everyone’s* enemy and you didn’t call the cops on your neighbors unless absolutely necessary. Little good ever came of calling the cops. Don’t shit where you eat, and all.

This was when the beaches were considered dirty and violent and you didn’t, as a respectable person, go down by the docks. 

This was when the “Dream of the Suburbs” was fed in a steady diet to the white middle class and normified as the American Dream, feeding people a picture of a perfect squeaky-clean white Protestant family consisting of a sexless couple and 2.5 perfect white Protestant children, spoon-fed into your brain holes by Hayes Code television. You watched them on TV but didn’t know about the abuse, the institutionalization of girl children for being intelligent, the utter fucking racism, or House Un-American Affairs Committee which branded ANYONE who agitated on behalf of their own cause, a dangerous enemy of the state. Even modern Tankies have no frame of reference for “Commie” actually being a life-destroying label.

This was when LGBTQ people were just “sexual deviants.” When neurodiverse people were simply institutionalized. When disabled people often couldn’t even eat in public.

This was when being “weird” or a “freak” meant actual, real, and utter social marginalization.  

This was when artists were imagined to be poor people. (The reality being that so many artists were poor or outcast first, and trying to do what they could to get by, and that happened to be their art.)

Being almost any kind of outcast, and surviving it, meant you were where the other outcasts were and trying to create something for yourselves. There was not ADA. There was not PFLAG. There were not support groups. There was no mainstream media inclusivity. When my mom was growing up, the perfect white upper middle class family was the only thing on TV. This is a cultural context in which a lot of us nerds, became such huge Star Trek fans. For many of us, this was the first thing on TV that really spoke to us. It was one of the first things on TV that people shared with their children that didn’t blare Hayes Code and fascist imagery at us. 

There was only barely community women’s health and it was even more radical then. 

My mother’s family moved to Venice not because it was a gentrified hipstertopia. It would not be that for a long time. My mother (born 1952) grew up poor and Jewish in Venice. Venice was nowhere. Venice was nothing. Venice was to Los Angeles what Antioch, CA is to San Francisco: somewhere way off in the middle of nowhere where no one who "matters" ever goes, where a lot of minorities and outcasts lived because of being unable to live anywhere else. 

Venice was a shithole. The city wouldn’t keep the canals clean. The only infrastructure the PTB at all cared about, was the notoriously racist, fascist local police force.

Lots of people wanted to leave. I’m sure they would have wished to leave on their own terms instead of being pushed out by love-bead wearing trustafarian 20 year olds with garage bands, who 20 years later would sell their homes to Bourgeoise Bohemians, who would then be replaced by Tech Bros.

Once Venice was wedged against the ocean on the dregs of a failed resort (of some developer who wanted to build a mock Venice, Italy earlier in the century), and separated from Los Angeles by smelly salt flats and marshes.

Now, the town that birthed The Doors in one of its canalside garages, has been swallowed by Los Angeles. 

It is often called Silicon Beach.

That disappeared world is what I think of, when I think of “counterculture.” The more privilege-originated people in that mix were a mix of people who themselves were actually and genuinely oppressed by HUAC, and by abusive and narcissistic parents totally supported by the old system and the mainstream culture. 

But not all of them disappeared.

Anyone who actually was there for the fight, stayed with the fight. A couple of the old “Boomers” I see at Indivisible meetings and agitating at City Council meetings, are former Civil Rights activists.

When the Left Puritans and the Right Puritans have divided up the US between them, where will you go? When you’re finished being chased off of Tumblr and YouTube, where will you go? When mass surveillance turns all electronic spaces to the equivalent environment of a hospital, public school, Federal building?

Our parents and grandparents, literal and figurative, didn’t have Tumblr. They did not have Leftbook. 

I hope that this did not seem as if I were romanticizing a cultural environment I know nothing about. There is nothing I would ever give to live in the 1960s and 70s. And I feel like the culture has made so many strides since then.

But this is the mental picture I have of “counterculture.” 

It was counter culture. Counterculture was a radicalized label that was a synonym for anti-American. It was not middle class mall subculture. You could not buy it at Hot Topic. 

[donnerpartyofone]

#3

I don’t ever remember feeling good. I don’t mean to say that I’ve never had moments of happiness, that I don’t love my friends, that I regret getting married; I’m not denying that I’ve had the opportunity to pursue passions in life, or that I feel incredibly lucky to have led my privileged life. I mean that I wanted to kill myself when I was a really little kid. I suffer from an incredibly detailed long term memory that goes back before I reached the age of two, and what I remember about childhood is the scathing heat of embarrassment, itching under a layer of cold sweat, revulsion at the hideousness and impracticality of my own body, horror at a world that was ugly, dirty, cheap, boring and airless, a world that was all these things and that required mandatory participation, a factory that makes nothing. I vacillated between mindless rage, and violent sobbing, which I indulged on purpose in pursuit of catharsis. There wasn’t much that I wanted, because everything seemed so repulsive. The main thing was that I wanted to be left alone, and unseen. Each morning I would wake up gripped by panic, because I knew that once I left my bedroom to come to breakfast, everyone was going to look at me. It would take me what felt like hours to work up the nerve to open the door, and when I did I would begin to scream “DON’T LOOK AT ME! DON’T LOOK AT ME!” like a toddler version of Frank Booth. It’s pretty hilarious to think about, but the truth is that I still feel like doing that every time I show up somewhere.

My earliest memory is of my mother trying to take my picture. It took place in an apartment I couldn’t exactly place, so at first I thought it must have been a dream. I was very little, but I understood enough about what the camera meant--that I was being stared at. I turned away, and was repositioned; then I tried to run away. My mother chased me, increasingly infuriated, until I was cornered behind the hilariously prison-like bars of my crib, where she could photograph me whether I liked it or not. I eventually found the resulting picture of myself agonizing behind the crib, confirming that I remembered being about one-and-a-half, living in an apartment before the house I grew up in. The memory serves as something like a metaphor for everything I have been afraid of--helplessness, captivity, surveillance, and of course, my mother.

There is no doubt that I had a serious chemical problem that caused my catastrophic rages and suicidal ideation, even so early in life. (I would find out about that...well, just a few years ago) But, lest I fall into the trap that therapy so often creates--the belief that everything that is wrong with you is within your own power to change, that sadness and anger are only the result of your own bad attitude, which just needs an adjustment--I have to admit that there is something within all this about my mother. I have traditionally categorized this particular woe as a void of maternal relationship. My mother and I “didn’t get along” or “didn’t really relate”, and then before I was old enough for us to have our first adult conversation, she was dead. As I teased out some anecdotal details of our absence from each other’s lives with my first therapist, that doctor once started one of our sessions by blithely declaring, “So you say your mother hated you!” Actually I never said that, but thanks for illuminating things so brightly, you...fucking asshole. Ironically, one of the things I didn’t like about this young, attractive, waspy therapist was that her Kelly Bundy-ish work attire made it impossible for me to bring up any anxieties I had around my own attractiveness, or my alienation from the rest of my gender. The alienation from the rest of my gender that had certainly begun with my alienation from my mother.

I don’t remember a single nurturing, initiatory experience with my mother. I had my first period young, and when I naturally went to her for help--well, to be fair, I probably told her that I more or less understood how things went, but I still think we probably should have had a longer conversation than just her telling me not to flush maxi pads down the toilet, and coolly dismissing me. I remember the first time I tried on makeup, her makeup of course; as soon as she spotted me, she asked “Are you wearing makeup?” in this razor sharp tone, and scowled at me until I followed her unspoken instruction to go to the bathroom, wash my face, and send myself to my room. Again, no further discussion of makeup, clothing, or general womanhood issues ensued. Similarly, I remember a day when I had become just old enough to pick out some of my own clothes. We went shopping for underwear, and every model she suggested, I just wanted in black. I didn’t realize what kind of rage this was stoking in her until she suddenly snapped, “DON’T YOU WANT ANYTHING OTHER THAN BLACK?” and spun away from me. I had no idea what rule I was breaking to deserve this, although the truth is that probably some primitive part of me understood that it was kind of a sexual problem. In the following years I developed into a huge comic book nerd, spending almost all my time copying what I didn’t really know were pretty sleazy pinup images of female characters out of X-Men comics. I had an inkling that these were sort of horny-looking, but I was really attracted to the drawings, which were heavily cross-hatched and compulsively detailed, according to the predominant style of the '90s. That kind of intense, microscopic linework has always attracted me, and one day I stupidly asked my mother, an artist herself, what she thought of a certain drawing I was studying. Most unfortunately, it was of the White Queen, a really idiotic character whose costume is essentially lingerie. What really interested me about it was the linework, but my hopes of discussing art were dashed when my mother spat “I THINK IT’S BORDERLINE PORNOGRAPHY!” and promptly stormed off. That probably would have been a pretty good time for her to talk with her insecure, confused eleven year old girlchild about feminism, body positivity, or any of the other facts of being a woman that I desperately needed to hear. I didn’t get any of that either when, around the same time, I started trying to talk to her about feeling fat and ugly, and she just threw a diet book at me. When I remember my mother, I most immediately remember the back of her head.

This all makes my mother sound like some sort of tyrannical throwback housewife, but none one would have told you that about her. Mom was “cool”. A playfully subversive hippie painter from Brown who loved kitsch and camp, she filled our house with old pulp novels, 3D horror comics, bootlegs of Mystery Science Theater 3000, tapes of Warhol’s Frankenstein and Dracula. She was a striking dresser, imperiously intelligent, and brutally funny. She was outrageously popular among everyone who knew her. The strange truth, though, was that while she had the outward appearance of a mischievous hipster on the cutting edge of culture, on the inside she had a rigid resistance to anything she considered psychologically or emotionally abnormal. Sadness and frustration were unacceptable, antisocial qualities, inconveniences that were grounds for rejection. So, as if she’d been cursed by a spiteful witch, instead of having a fun, affectionate, curious, creative mini-me, her first born turned out to be a taciturn suicide case, constantly quivering with fear and rage--the ultimate in uncoolness. I have a recollection of being around 12 and complaining to her about a friend of mine who was (also) sort of a drip and a drama queen. My mother’s advice to me was to say to my difficult friend, “I’m sorry you feel that way,” which is a clever way of expressing sympathy while giving no credit at all to the sources of the person’s pain. Even at that young age, I kind of thought...hey wait a minute, that’s exactly what she’s been saying to me!

Lest anyone think of her as some sort of roundly superior specimen, I can also say that she was sort of a nerd. She had a huge number of allergies, and also asthma, which she passed on to my brother and me. (And ironically, my lifelong snorting and snuffling and sneezing became one of the many things about me that visibly disgusted her) This, combined with my father’s amorphous environmental illnesses (see: the brilliant Todd Haynes movie SAFE), compelled my parents to try to move house. When I was about 11, we moved across our grimy, depressed city to a much bigger house in a nicer neighborhood. Shortly after we got settled, my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. Her doctor’s advice was to go home and make her peace, immediately, but she shocked everyone by surviving for at least another three years. When people hear that, they always respond as if it must have been some sort of beautiful miracle. No one who has lived with the dying could think this. Our lives turned into NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, quickly and consistently, every day a frank, unromantic confrontation with mortality, until it was over.

What could I possibly feel? This person who was a virtual stranger to me, who didn’t like me, who turned into a rotting corpse in front of me, had died in agony. Instead of trying to raise a happy, healthy person, she had sat back expecting me to seduce her, and I had failed. So, I didn’t know what the loss of her really meant. I would never understand anything about maternity, and I would never figure out anything about being a woman that I didn’t ultimately make up for myself. The only thing I really knew about first hand was death. I didn’t understand much of anything about my mother’s actual biological reality, because no one really communicated with me about it, but I knew for sure that the human body is a bunch of bullshit and there is just no reason to be precious about it, ever. Unfortunately, one is never left in dignified solitude with their own interpretation of death. Death is a curse that befalls the living, who are then suddenly and disproportionately responsible for each other’s feelings. This is never more true than when you physically resemble the dead. You become everybody’s confessor, the person with whom they try to relive their experience with the living, and you better be nice about it--even if you are technically more entitled to grief and resentment and anguish than anybody in the room. And of course, this was never more true than with someone who had always frightened me more than my mother: my mother’s mother.

[larryfanfiction]

Roadtrip AU

🚗 These Roads We Stumble by Downonewasturning (18k)

He’s completely drenched, not one millimetre of him not covered in rain, and the old sheepskin cover over the seat is probably going to stink afterwards from the damp. But even with what seems to be a constant tremor shaking his body, brown hair plastered to his forehead, and a blue tinge to his skin, he’s still probably the most gorgeous person that Harry has ever seen.

Or, Harry picks up a hitchhiker in Oxford, and it's a long ride to Glasgow.

🚗 On The Open Road by rosegoldhl (24k)

Harry and Louis grew up together, they shared childhood and teenage memories, but they never really got along.What happens when they reunite after four years of not seeing each other, and they find out that the person they hated so much is not the same person anymore?Or a short roadtrip!au in which Harry and Louis have to travel together across the US, deal with the past and of course, share a bed.

🚗 Walk That Mile by purpledaisy (149k) Harry stares at him, the line of his jaw standing out scarily. “I wanted to get the most out of this trip so I planned it carefully.” His voice is low and steady and somehow that’s worse than when he was yelling. “So far, you’ve put your sticky fingers on everything I’ve tried to do.”“Sticky fingers?” Louis repeats, offended. “Are you saying it’s my fault you got stung by a bee? Had you been alone you would have gotten halfway to the Dotty Diner and ran the car off the road because of an allergic reaction, so don’t go blaming me.”“Polk-A-Dot Drive In,” Harry spits before getting out of the car. He slams the door shut with a deafening reverb and Louis rolls his eyes. - A Route 66 AU where falling in love was never part of the plan. 🚗 somewhere only we know by bethaboo (44k)

Personal assistant Louis knows something is up with his best friend and employer Harry. And it's not just his big tour coming up or the ever-increasing womanizing rumors about the popstar. To get to the bottom of Harry's moodiness, Louis decides he has to kidnap him and take him on a roadtrip up the California coast to Portland.

The roadtrippiest road trip fic ever written. Basically an excuse for gratuitous fluff and smut with a pinch of angst tossed in for good measure.

🚗 a runaway american dream by dangerbears (15k)

AU. they take route 66 with only each other and their secrets.

🚗 bluebird by isntrio (39k)

The 2,789 miles between New York and Los Angeles is a long way to go alone.

🚗 The Sound of Your Voice From Far Away by pukeandcry

It'd be perfect, he convinces himself. Things with Lou are – well. They're the way they are, and there's no point dwelling on why it's got that way. But he thinks this would help -- not fix them, because they're not broken. They don't need to be put back together, they're just. Out of sync, maybe. It would help. He thinks it would, anyway, if they could just be the two of them again, to be alone together with no outside influences pressing claustrophobically in on them, just for a bit. And driving down an empty highway with nothing else but Louis beside him is the best way to do that that he can imagine.

Or, after the U.S. leg of the Take Me Home tour, Harry and Louis drive from L.A. to NYC. They figure some things out, like how to deal with the distance that's been growing between them.

🚗 Through the Darkest of Your Days by robpatFF

"Harry thinks he might not really know what okay is, but Louis is warm next to him, solid and constant and questioning. He’s all wide eyes and nerves and vulnerability. And this feels alright, this might be some sort of okay, Harry thinks." Future!fic, roadtrip!fic, OT5 friendship!fic.

🚗 Undone, Undress by angelichl (134k)

Louis' new roommate is shy, skittish, and flinches at the slightest sounds. He's an art major who gets drunk on cherry wine, wears lacy lingerie, and shows up late at night covered in bruises that blossom across his skin like flowers.

Obviously something is wrong. Louis just doesn't know what it is.

🚗 Stay Close, Hold Steady by jaerie (26k)

Found on the banks of the Mississippi as an toddler, Harry goes on a quest to find his biological family. Louis tries to be supportive, but maybe he just doesn't want to be left behind.

🚗 Don't Let the Tide Come and Take Me by kiwikero (28k)

The aquarium in the lobby has been there as long as Louis can remember, and so has the merman inside. That is, until the day Louis loses his job and decides to set the creature free.

They set off on a road trip to the sea, learning to communicate more and more each day. Their destination is LA, but the closer they get and the more Louis gets to know the merman, the more he dreads having to say goodbye.

Or, the one where Louis decides to set a merman free and ends up finding his own freedom along the way.

🚗 Alien Roadtrip! by HelloAmHere (16k)

For the first time in his life, Louis doesn’t know where he’s going. Harry doesn’t mind.

OR: roadtrip with desert feelings, too much snack food, and empty motels. Harry is definitely absolutely not an alien. That would be ridiculous.

🚗 Enjoy The Ride by 2tiedships2 (11k)

“Stop sulking and get up. I have a proposition to make.”

“Niall?” Louis questioned. “Do you think I should put glow in the dark stars on my ceiling?”

He looked over and found Niall giving him an unimpressed look.

“So, no?” Louis asked. “No stars?”

“We’re going on a road trip,” Niall stated.

Louis looked back at his starless ceiling and waved farewell to Niall. “Cool. Have fun!”

“No, you idiot.” Niall let out a frustrated sigh. “You, me, Liam, and Harry.”

Louis glanced over to Niall and back to the ceiling. “Who’s Harry?”

Or the one where Louis, an omega more than tired of being treated as lesser than alphas, is forced on a road trip by his beta besties only to meet Harry who might just be the alpha he never knew he wanted.

🚗 Atlas At Last by louisandthealien (83k)

He doesn’t know what he had been expecting out of the road trip itself besides burping contests and too much shitty gas station food with Oli and Stan, but in the brief moment before Harry ambles up his driveway, Louis idly wonders if this is about to become some sort of Gay Coming of Age story.

Maine to California in ten days. In which Zayn’s an open-shirt hippie they meet somewhere in Ohio, Liam’s the pastor’s son running away from home, and Niall’s the number they call on the bathroom wall.

It’s 1978. Harry and Louis are just trying to get to San Fran in time for the Queen concert.

🚗 All Eyes On Your by ainbow_kings (49k)

Harry and Louis have been married for ten years and they have three children. When their relationship is threatened with a divorce, they pack their belongings and go on a road trip in means to save their relationship. They promise to stay on the road and only returning once they've sorted through their problems.

🚗 and mercury on your heels by flimsy (8k)

“Lou.” Louis turns his head and looks up at Harry, brow tilted. Harry slumps down on the bed, his cheek squished a little as he props himself up on his elbow, lying on his side; he reaches one arm out to make a grabby hand at him. “C’mere,” he says. Louis bats at his hand, but somehow his fingers tangle with Harry’s, pinkies hooking, and Harry rubs his thumb over Louis’ wrist as if he’s looking for his heartbeat beneath his skin.

🚗 take the back roads by hilourry (31k)

The one where Harry and Louis are roommates who are pining over each other and all they need is a road trip down the West Coast to bring them together.

🚗 What A Happy Accident by ItsLivvvy (2k)

Based on this prompt:

"We're on a road trip and you got silent all of the sudden and that's cool you needed to shut up but then you start panting and oh god you look like you're gonna throw up but we're literally moving across state and the house is already sold and the only motels around are booked for a con and that's really really really bad because you're in heat and don't look at me like that- nO stoPthere's cars and trucks all over the place for this con I cannot have you fucking H-hEY DONT START CLIMBING IN MY LAP-" AU

🚗 you're the summer in my mind by orphan_account

Harry supposes it had started with Louis, really. Because even if nobody wants to say it out loud, everything starts with Louis.

(or, alternatively: harry and louis take a road trip after the take me home tour ends.)

🚗  nothing worsens, nothing grows by soldouthaz  (102k)

and he sits there quietly with harry’s headphones in his ears while his eyes begin to close, totally unaware that he’s listening to the soundtrack of harry falling in love with him.

or, another roadtrip au featuring harry as the misunderstood hipster, louis as the bitter psych major, liam as the one with the secret boyfriend, and niall as the one who just wants everyone to be happy.

[stillalicebyheart]

Random little headcanons I’ve thought of while writing for the Cotton Candy and Hunters AU/Personality Swap AU (ft. pastel!con, emo!ev, nerd!zoe, hipster!jared, and cheerleader!alana); some might not fit but I wanna share them anyways! ( @softmushie is the OG creator for this au )

Connor and Zoe host karaoke nights for their friends featuring Connor on piano, a makeshift ice cream bar, and self serve cotton candy

They always sing a very dramatic rendition of Me and The Sky from Come From Away

Connor sings The Games I Play from Falsettos (Evan is v blushy listening to it)

Alana forces Zoe to sing some top 40 love duet (Zoe really doesn’t fight it)

Jared sings Teenage Dirtbag and some song he insists none of them know but they actually do because he’s played it so much for them

Evan sits in a corner watching and eating his ice cream, insisting he doesn’t sing until Connor starts playing Seasons of Love and suddenly he’s glued to Connor’s side at the piano singing along and watching Con play.

The Murphy’s?? Yeah they’re complete hippies. Cynthia is very laid back and both kids are very open with her, but she knows when to stand up for what she knows is right and often goes to protests; she drives Connor and Zoe (and eventually their friends) to the Pride Parades within a 3 1/2 hour radius from them. Larry is still an attorney, but he’s a rights attorney and fights for gay rights, racial issues, all the big ones other people are hesitant to involve themselves in. He loves his kids and while he and Connor still butt heads every once in a while, he knows its only because they’re all changing.

Heidi is kind of a hard ass? She fought with Evan when he first came home with his first piercing, and she pushes him to be the best he can be, but it’s all out of love. She and Cynthia meet up for Sunday brunch every week (although Cyn is kind of forced into it; she swore she’d never be a ‘brunch’ person, but she and Heidi have been friends ever since Connor and Evan started hanging out) 

Jared!! Wears!! A!! Beanie!! and ripped jeans and a flannel. He’s one of those ‘I’m not a hipster’ hipster. He and Evan met because Evan needed a ride to a concert and Jared was the only other person in the entire city that was going; their first time hanging out was in Jared’s car on the way there and Jared called him out on his ‘fake’ punk look. They’ve been inseparable since (and actually are true friends and don’t belittle each other, save for the occasional joking back and forth) and meet up at least once a week to listen to music/read random books.

One of Evan’s lip rings is real, all the others are fake. He’s afraid they’ll get infected, and only did that one because he wanted to rebel.

Connor carries candy for all his friends; Evan has sour gummies, Zoe likes pop rocks, Alana has bubble gum, and Jared has gummy bears. For himself he has lollypops and other various hard candies.

Evan bites his lip rings when he’s feeling anxious, and Connor uses it as a tell to either change the subject or check in with Evan and, if need be, get him out of the situation. Connor’s tell is he’ll mess with his bracelets or earrings, and Evan will do the same thing. Once they grow closer (or start dating) they’ll hold hands and check in with squeezes. 

Zoe paints Connor and Evan’s nails while they study, and gives them answers to questions they have. She’s taken so many AP classes (as a junior) she’s even tutoring Alana. She also drags Connor to the football games to watch Alana perform. Once Zoe starts talking to Alana down by the field, Connor goes off to find Evan up at the top of the bleachers, watching traffic drive by, and they give each other shitty play-by-plays. Evan convinces Connor that the numbers on their jerseys are their ‘power level’.

Alana wears contacts because she can’t perform in her glasses, and only wears her glasses outside of school/school functions; the first time she and Zoe hang out outside of school to study, Connor gets a load of texts telling him that Zoe is ‘going to spontaneously combust’ and to ‘find a new sister bc zoe.exe has quit working.’

Alana finds Zoe’s knowledge so fucking cute and the whole squad gives her pointers on getting the girl. Even though Zoe isn’t a popular girl, they all think it’s adorable af and tease Alana mercilessly. One time, per their advice, she leaves her cheer jacket (think cheerios jackets from glee ig??) at the cafe they’re at and Zoe wears it to school the next day.

Alana and Connor are actually really close and love going shopping together

One time Jared helped Connor touch up the colors in his hair and ended up with a pastel green streak in his hair; when asked about it, he’d say he was trying something new.

Zoe makes so many jokes that go over everyone’s head because they’re fact-based jokes and sometimes they don’t get it, but she loves them anyways.

Connor gave Zoe a necklace with a charm that is the formula for the chemical responsible for love; she wears it all the time.

Their group chat is called “Stereotype Central” bc they all know they’re such stereotypes and own it.

[littlesamsonthedragonewtblo-blog]

Study Session

((Based upon my friend’s pic, @caelusprime, though it’s loosely based off of it. Enjoy))

High School, many call it the “creation of your future careers” or “root of your careers.” Some find it ridiculous, but others find it a serious matter; colliding these two, there might be problems. Obviously. Most/Some schools are technically self-separated by known social groups like the jokes, tech-savvy geeks, hipsters/hippies, the drama geeks, & of course Goths.

You maybe asking, “who is the main thing on this story.” Well first of all, it’s not the social group. It’s one person, one male in this school. He goes by the name of Max.

Maxim or Max qualifies himself “not belonging to the spectrum” of his peers. The reason is unknown, but he’s a nice kid in general, then again he does have his mean nice. His peers call him weird at the most, but he prefers eccentric.

Max is a geek of History, he’s decent on anything involving Reading, Language Arts, & English Writing. Despite that, he has a problem with things like Science & Math; he finds those subjects not interesting enough for him & he tends to do poor on them.

His parents & teachers are worried about him, so every end of the school day he goes to tutoring in his school’s library. His tutor, named Ellody Nakajima, is indeed smart & very understanding upon Max’s troubles. She make sure that he gets the certain key points & all she cares about if he gets a good degree when he graduates.

But one problem: Max has a crush on Ellody.

Whenever Max is aroused, he usually tries his best to hide it & suppress it, but of course that’s bad for his health. Whenever he’s near her, he just started to think explicit thoughts about her. Though she is older than him, but he doesn’t care, he wants her. Only her.

Even though she’s married.

Max’s tutoring is settles at Ellody’s house, her home was nice & feels comfortable for him; of course, he feels more “comfortable” around her. When he got there, he see’s that only one car is left on the drive way. Indicating that her husband left. He knocks on the door, he waits till an answer, which was Ellody opening the door. She smiled, seeing him, she was wearing a her usual clothing of a black shirt & jean shorts. Her shirt was rather a bit tight that show off her cleavage.

She said, “Hi Max, ready for some tutoring.”

He nodded in response,”Mmhmm.”

“Awesome! Get inside.”

She stepped aside to let him in, he went inside & then she leads him to her office; Max placed his working stuff on the desk, Ellody sitting next him. They went to work.

After an hour of tutoring & Max having some “distractions” of work, things was about to wrap things up. When Ellody was talking to him about Geometric functions, he was “staring into space” or in this case: staring into her cleavage.

Ellody noticed that he wasn’t paying attention, she snapped her fingers around his face, “Hey, hey, pay attention please.”

He shook his face a bit, “S-s-sorry Mrs. Nakajima.”  

“Good, okay so getting back to this. So, the 3 triangles are scalene. All three have an X, we need to find the X on all three. Do you know how to find the X on all three.”

“Ohh..uhhmm..”He flustered a bit, stammered, trying to get an answer out of his mouth. Though, he did had some quick glances on her cleavage, he blushes. He looks down a bit, “M-m-mmaybe to see if they a-add to one 180?”

“Good, good & what are the rules to do find the actual number?”

He thinks for a bit, after a long minute, he said, “Is one of them the ‘Sin’ rule?”

“Yes, & the other one is called?”

“Uhhhmm...C-’cosin rule’?”

“Yes, good, now let’s solve.”

After the questions, Ellody helped him with the rest of Geometry work. Max gathered his finished work & was about to stand up, but Ellody grabbed his arm & looks at him. “Max, I...I know you have feelings for me & I know you’ve been looking at my cleavage for half of these sessions.”

Max blushed madly in embarrassment, he thought that his tutor thinks that he’s a pervert for doing those things.

“Is there something you want to tell me? Be honest.”

Max was blushing more, looking down again, he came out, “I-i-i loved you s-since I saw you for the first day. I didn’t mean too, but I just c-can’t help myself. I think you’re a beautiful lady...” he looks up at her, “P-please don’t tell my parents, I promise not to do it again.”

Ellody took his answer, she inhaled deeply. “Max...you’re cute & all, but I’m married & an adult. You’re 17 & I can’t do--”

She was cut off by Max grabbed her by the waist, pulls her towards & he gave her a big kiss on the lips. Her eyes widen by the sudden action. Max pulled back, looks at her. Realizing what he did, he gathered his stuff & left the room. But before he could, he was pulled back & Ellody returned the kiss by a slap on the face. After a second, she kissed him back, but hers was longer.

As the kissing came along, Ellody was grabbing his groin, giving it a soft squeeze to get him erected. He was grabbing her by her rear end, groping her plush, buttcheeks; making her moan.

Each other lead to the bed, Max was the first one to fell onto the bed. Ellody pulls herself away from the kiss, looking at his face. “Ready for it big boy?” she said in a seductive tone. He nods in response. Ellody sexually smirk, she lowers down, kneeling in front of him as he sits up; seeing her undoing his belt.

She unzips his pants, gets her hand in his boxers, gently stroking the base. “I can feel you got a nice girth, but I guess that’s usual for a teen.” she says, looking at him. Max stuttered, “Uh-uhh, yeah I guess, never r-really pay attention to that stuff.”

“Pfft, you did pay attention to my breasts rather than your work silly boy.” she giggled, he blushes more, face being red. She smiles, pulling his penis out. Looking impressed by the size & width, “Nice length & nice thickness, but let’s see you know how to use it.” she jerks him off as licking upward on the shaft to the tip. Licking circular on it.

Max softly placed a hand on her head as she toys around with his member, moaning softly, feeling heated from all the pleasure that his tutor is giving him. Ellody massage his balls as sucks his tip, which she then slides her head down further on it. She bobs her head along the shaft, making a deepthroat.

Though, Max was a virgin, & he was taking it real nice. Enjoying the pleasure with each second of it, “O-oh God...Where did you learn how to do this?” he asked, which Ellody pulls out & answered, “Well, my husband of course, but I did also had a bit of a phase back in College. Y’know, gloryhole & all that.”

“Whoa, never knew you were like that.”

“It’s a secret, but don’t tell my husband, he might flip.”

Max nodded in agreement. Still being hard, Ellody removes her glasses, & her shirt & her bra to expose her wondrous curves. Max’s reaction, “Wow, nice rack Mrs. Nakajima.”

She giggled, “Call me Ellody, silly” she slides her breasts to sandwich his cock, he moans a bit, “These are really soft..E-Ellody.”

“Why thank you, your member isn’t bad as well”, she smiles moving her breasts up & down on his cock. Max moans as she does, leaning back, enjoying the pleasure that an adult woman is giving him. Ellody’s suction was hard, but delicate. Her tongue was, in her mouth, licking all around his shaft to. She can feel his penis twitch & throb. Max was about to tell her, but she placed a finger on his mouth. She pulls out & looks at him, “Don’t think about it cumming yet.” she says in a seductive tone again, but this time it was like she was wanting it.

Max gulped, as he see’s her standing up, thus in a teasingly matter removing her shorts & her panties in front of him to excite him more. She smiles as getting on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck. His cock is in between her well-rounded buttcheeks & her soft breasts up close to his chest. “Ready for it big boy?~”

Max nodded. Ellody lifted herself up & then slide his cock in her warm, wet vagina. Max hold her waist as he moans, Ellody moans as well as she slid down further. She pants as she rides him, moaning & panting in bliss. She then push him by his chest to the bed, “Enjoy the ride, but next time you’re taking lead.”

“O-okay.” he was still holding her waist even if he was laying down. He watched as his tutor rides him, seeing her breasts bounce makes him more arouse. He was having problems holding it in, but he didn’t want to disappoint his tutor.

Ellody moans & pants as she jumps up & down, making his cock rubbing her sweet spots in her vagina.

They were going at it for a few minutes, longer than five minutes though, more than 10. Max started to speak, “Ah shit, I think I’m gonna cum.”

Ellody pants, looking down at him, “It’s okay, just release it all. Do it together.”

“Okay Ellody.”

Max sits up, grabbing her waist & thrusts up faster. Ellody clings onto him, moaning more. “Ah! yes! fuck me good!”

He grunted, thrusting more & more. Then with one hard thrust, balls deep, he releases his sperm in her. Both let out a sigh in bliss, Max panted. Still holding each other.

“Good boy, Max. You’re a good boy.” she commented, Max smiled a bit.

After some time, they both cleansed, Max put on his clothes back on & Ellody just remained nude, since she wanted a shower. “Hey, ever thought of having sex in a shower.”

Max answered as he was buckling his belt, “I-I dreamt of it, but I can’t for now. I have to get home or my parents will get suspicious, I’ll just tell them that we did extra work. Okay?”

Ellody nodded, “Okay, I understand. But remember, we are not gonna do this every time okay? It has to be a ‘rewarding type’ thing. If you got good grades, we’ll do it, okay?”

Max nodded, “Okay, I understand...Though, do you usually do this type of thing with your husband?”

“We used to, but since he had cancer, the only thing to make him live is by getting an operation that involves him getting a sex change operation. Ever since then, we tried to do things to make it work; even sex, but it always never been the same. Though of course now it’s good, but sometimes I need a dick once in a awhile. Dildos are fine, but...I need the real thing.”

“Oh.” he looks down a bit, rubbing his shoulder, “Sorry to hear about your...wife, but I hope you two will manage to do it.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” she smiles, going up to him, kissing his cheek. He smiles lightly, blushing. “Umm, i-is it okay If umm..We do this, with..your wife?”

Ellody giggled, “I don’t think ‘she’ wants to do it right now, but maybe next time; she’s still getting used to it.”

Max nodded in agreement, he gathered his stuff. Saying good bye to Ellody. As he walks out of the room, he bumps into Matsuki. “Oh-oh, sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Matsuki crossed her eyes, “It’s okay, I just got home. You usually left before I got here, is there something up?”

Max answered quickly, “N-no, we just thought of we can squeeze in extra time with my work y’know. See you later, Mrs. Nakajima.”

Matsuki rolled her eyes, “Call me Matsuki, ‘Mrs. Nakajima’ is my mom.”

“Oh sorry, well I gotta go home now.” he walked out of the house & went home. Matsuki watches him go, & enters the room to her wife in the shower.

Technically, Matsuki knows what the two don’t know, yet. She happens to arrive home early & heard the moans of the two in the bedroom. She peeked on them & saw her own wife having sex with a 17 year old. She wanted to confront them, but instead she enjoyed it. She hid herself, & she started to self-please herself as she hears the moans of the two are going at it.

Typically, she reached climax when the two did, she heard about them talking about her & him wanting to do it with her & Ellody. The thought made her blush, & excited.  

She acted like she got home & she went along with Max’s bluff. When she entered the room, heard that Ellody is in the shower. She stripped off of her clothes & went in with her.

Matsuki surprisingly spoken, “Hi there sweetie, was the kid good?”

Ellody jumped, but she calmly answered, “Oh, he’s doing okay, progressing like any other teenager these days.I just wonder why is it hard for him to understand geometry.”

Matsuki snorted, “Hey, some people are like that. They need people like us to make them feel great.” she smirks when she said “great”, which was in a seductive tone. She went up to Ellody & grab her breasts. Ellody yelped, “Ohhh, frisky huh?” Ellody says it seductively. The two smirk & then they made out in the shower. Though they did ended up being intimate in the shower, but they continued it on the bed.

Max walked home & his day went by usually. He went to bed.

Happy, at least.

[monkeystrokes8]

FIRST SET.

Bill spotted Charlene coming into the bar as the drummer-of-the-week put a shimmer on the high-hat for an overdramatic finish to “I Still Miss Someone,” meant to tug heartstrings but making Bill laugh. Probably because they were only five songs into the set and he’d already downed half an Old Style and three fingers of tequila and Charlene was especially dolled up in a velvet-curtain red jumpsuit, white fringe spilling off her shoulders like carwash drying strips.

It was a worrisome moment too. Like the song said, there was a real good chance he’d "never get over those blue eyes."

The crawl of circling dancers quickened as Del hit the opening notes of “Fox on the Run.” Coca-cola cowboys in white straw Stetsons two-stepping with Mary Kay consultants flirting with hippie college kids shuffling around with unstoppable geriatrics. The Broken Axle was the most confounding joint Bill ever played, a broke-down country-western roadhouse smack dab in the middle of an R&B mecca. The Sunday afternoon gig was a three-hour affair, a last hurrah before the tragedy of Monday morning, with time to sleep most it off.  

Charlene blew Del a kiss and settled into her regular booth with the books. From the angle of his piano bench, Bill could steal as many looks her way as he could handle. A blessing and a curse.

Bill never intended to fall for the May pinup girl recently hitched to December’s falling Nashville star taking one final bow as proprietor and house-band leader of a honky-tonk Memphis bar. But after just a few weeks playing this gig, Charlene was in Bill's head but good. Anyway,it wasn’t all his fault. She kinda started it.

In about an hour, Del would call his young wife to the stage for a George-Tammy or Porter-Dolly or Conway-Loretta number to end the second set. As mismatched as their ages, they made a classic country duo, and true to stereotype of young women knocking boots with yesterday’s headliners, Charlene’s eye seemed to wander. Last week, leaning into the mic for harmony on "Golden Rings” she glanced past her husband’s neck to give the new kid on keys a salacious wink that would make Tanya Tucker blush.

Del Hopkins and the Railroad Spikes was once the hot ticket; Saturday nights at the Ryman, flame-job customized tour bus, 8x10 taped to the front window at Ernie’s Record Shop. The reason Bill took this gig. A resume including a stintwith the man who co-wrote “Double Eagles on a Single Bed” opened doors.

He was just setting out. He'd heard the horror stories coming out of Nashville. The Broken Axle on Sunday afternoon was the place for an ivory-tickler with a quarter in his pocket and a shirt on his back. Riding a legend’s coattails in a town where he could afford rent.

At the casual audition, after running through Del’s mandatories (Ray Price, Charlie Rich and other piano-centric standards) on the bar’s banged-up but surprisingly bright tack piano, Del offered him a trial run that Sunday, “That is, if you think you can keep up.”

Del wasn’t talking about music. “Sunday's a party here,” he said. “We play it loose, have a big time, and the crowd follows suit. A day of hoots, hollers, longnecks and picklebacks. And I expect the band to lead the charge."

That was the deal. You had to drink like a steam locomotive and still stay in key. According to Del, it didn’t get tricky until halfway through the second set, when the boozin’ picked up speed like the Orange Blossom Special.

“Only trouble we ever had was a drummer who went squirrely and turned into Neil Peart after a couple shots. But our last piano player handled it fine. May he rest in peace.” Del raised his bottle.  

It was a smart business model. Del would mumble something into the mic about being thirsty, or hair of the dog. Fans jumped to buy the band shots. Del would lift his glass. “Bless your hearts, you sweet things,” “Thankee kindly to the good folks at Table 5”, etcetera, then roar the Hee Haw catchphrase, “Sa-lute!” The crowd would howl like a pack of hounds picking up a scent and head to the bar for shots of their own. Then Del would do the Ole Possum hiccup and cheek-pop from "White Lightnin’." The crowd drank it up.  

And therein lay the rub. Bill didn’t drink hard liquor. Gave him the spins. A couple beers, fine, but liquor was not his friend. Never had been.

The first time the pigtailed barmaid showed up with a trayful, Bill tried to slyly dump his shot into the cuff of his Wranglers. The crowd bellowed and Del cracked wise about how he thought Carolina hillbillies were wet-nursed from a still.

From then on, Bill did his best. The band was harmless enough: a doughy family man with a penchant for thrift-store ties on stand-up; wispy-haired guy with a scrunched-up face on fiddle; and drummer-of-the-week, so far a runaway teenager, a poker-faced Lurch and a grizzled hipster looking like he just woke up. Whoever felt like sitting in. Del handled vocals and guitar, white pompadour piled ridiculously high, Sun Session tee with rolled-up sleeves, silver-dollar-studded Telecaster on his knee.

The problem was Charlene. When Cupid runs out of arrows, he calls his pal, Inebriation, the cherub with the cocktail shaker of Love Potion #9. Bill pried his eyes from the curvaceous cowgirl, pushed the soft crush of velvet out of his head, and concentrated on the 88s.

Del hit the closing licks of “Mama Tried” and the band broke for smokes and leaks.

Charlene was waiting at the edge of the stage with a chopped-pork sandwich on a paper plate. “You hungry, sugar?”

Bill hesitated. Was it proper to accept a BBQ sandwich from another man's wife you’ve pictured wearing nothing but a smile?

“Oh. Hey. Thanks.”

Before he could take the plate, Charlene walked it to her booth. “C’mon over here, baby. Let's get to know each other a little.”  

She slid into the banquette. Red velvet on red vinyl, a devil's playground. Bill took a nervous glance around, then looked at the sandwich, determined not to make eye contact.  

He’d seen sandwiches coming out of the closet-sized kitchen slopped together by the cook who also maintained the ancient building's plumbing and electric. This one was made with TLC, the perfect balance of sauce and slaw, hickory-smoked hunks tucked neatly in a warm bun. Had she made it herself?

“So you just moved from Carolina, huh? All by your lonesome?”

The word “lonesome” struck a chord. A sour one.

He was alone in a small apartment in a greasy-grit-gravy town. It wasn’t just sex he was missing. He was looking for a friend, too.

Bill squirmed. Del was nowhere in sight, but with the whole bar stealing looks in their direction, he felt more on stage than when on stage. He nodded yes and took a bite.

And then, goddammit, he looked in her eyes. A pale-blue invitation to go skinny-dipping.

The eyes on the back of Carly Simon’s first album. Eyes he’d been in love with since rummaging his father’s record collection at age six.

And Carly’s lips. Charlene had those, too.

Bill didn’t put all his love marbles on looks, but he believed in physiognomy. Granddaddy was the spitting image Jimmy Stewart, and by god, they were the same stand-up guy,cracking knuckles and folksy truths.

And here, glowing like a heat lamp over a BBQ sandwich, was the face of his dream girl. He couldn’t help but think--just like Carly sang it--loving her would be “the right thing to do.”

“Well you won’t be flying solo for long, I’m sure of that. Cutie pie like you is gonna get scooped up lickety-split in this town.

Bill was hoping his infatuation would cool. Now she was calling him “Cutie pie.” Worst of all, Del was a decent guy.

An impatient snare drum counted down. The band was back. Bill looked from the raised eyebrows of Del to Charlene to his half-eaten sandwich.  

Charlene gave his arm a pat. “I’ll wrap it for you.”

There was a shot waiting on the piano.

SECOND SET.

“You’re leaving us hanging, boy,” Del twanged. “Much obliged to the lovely fillies who drove all the way from Knoxville. Sa-lute!”

Tequila. Bill swallowed his gag reflex as the band kicked into “Only Daddy That’ll Walk the Line.”

The dance floor filled, promenade line colliding like state-fair bumper cars.Del took a request that Bill had to fake his way through. Thankfully, Charlene would be up soon with her usual song list.

Only she wouldn’t. The music stopped, and Del reached for the tallboy tucked into an overturned toilet plunger clamped to his mic stand. Charlene gave a playful finger snap and he dug out keys and jangled them,teasing her, then handed them over.  

“You know I love my wife,” Del told the crowd, “when I let her drive the Caddy.” Del drove a 1966 red convertible. “But we’ve got important people flying in from Nashville today, and they get the best. Y'all are just gonna have to put up with us ugly plugs until she gets back.” Charlene blew another kiss and waved goodbye to the bar. There was a chorus of comic disappointment, followed by opening licks of “Kiss an Angel Good Morning.”

Important people from Nashville. That explained Charlene’s get-up. Del had lots of old pals from his salad days in the biz. Bill fantasized some big-buckled scout discovering the fresh talent on keys. “Son, I'm gonna make you a star.”

The band was two verses into “Streets of Bakersfield" when a procession of rowdy bikers in cheap leather vests plowed though the front door. Sunday cruisers, bellying to the bar slapping clumsy high fives. By the sound of it, this wasn’t their first stop.

Del didn’t seem to notice.

Pigtails was back at the stage with another trayful. Bill suddenly didn’t feel so hot. Del raised a glass. “This one goes out to the cowpunchers at Table 8,  

           May you never lose a stirrup,            May you never waste a loop;            May your can stay full of syrup,            And your gizzard full of whoop!

           Sa-lute!

The fiddle player screeched into “Orange Blossom Special.”

Holy hell. Bill was smashed.

The bar roared with drunken thunder as the Special picked up speed, chug-a-chugging through the pass like a runaway train, pistons clanking, smoke belching, letting off steam, as the fiddler tried to saw his instrument in half. Woot woot!

Del was grinning wide, the bell of the antique register clanging away like the Old 97. As the train pulled mercifully into the station with a final scratch of the fiddle, Del made a slashing sign across his throat. Break time.

“Play some Johnny Paycheck!” One of the bikers.  

Del held up a palm. “The boys and I are getting pretty tuckered up here, gonna take a pause for the cause and be right back for the last set.”

The bikers weren’t having it. “Paycheck!”

Bill knew from experience. Always keep an eye on yahoos yelling "Paycheck!" These guys were assholes.

Del remained composed. “You fellas cool it. Don’t start no shit there won’t be no shit.” He took a swill of beer. “Back in ten. Play nice, everybody.”  

Bill stood up, his head spinning. He bolted out the fire exit for some fresh air. And possibly a place to puke.

Charlene was back, leaning against the Caddy, now wearing a denim jacket, daintily puffing a cigarette (she smokes?) talking to an older gent in a rumpled suit and woman in a flowered dress that reminded him of his mother. VIPs? Whoever they were, they’d seen flashier days. Nonetheless, Del seemed overjoyed to see them, bounding over with enthusiastic handshakes and kisses. “C’mon in, we’ve saved you the best table in the house!” Charlene waved them away, lingering to finish her smoke.

The bikers came ‘round the corner. Bill smelled reefer. "Hey-hey mama say the way you move, gonna make sweat gonna make you groove," one sang with hackle-raising lechery.

Within seconds, Charlene was surrounded by the saddlefat gang of wanna-be toughs, like a fat farm production of West Side Story.One darted forward as if to touch her ass, then pulled away, a show-off kid putting his hand over a fire.  

The tequila did the talking. “Piss off, dick lips,” Bill said.

Five heads twisted. “Excuse me, douchebag?" said a gray flattop.

“You heard me fuckface.” Bill balled a fist, then remembered the piano player’s credo. Protect the hands at all costs. He was praying for a crowbar to magically appear when a bald guy the size of a gas pump cold-cocked him in the nose. Lights out.

THIRD SET.

He woke surrounded by cases of beer and canned tomatoes. Charlene was dabbing his bleeding nose with a bar towel.

“There you are. Big man without a plan. How you feelin’, honey?”

Bill adjusted his makeshift pillow, a restaurant-sized pack of corn tortillas. “Okay, I guess. Stupid, but okay.”

“Ain’t nothing more heroic than a man who can’t fight jumping into one. Specially defending a damsel in distress.”

The glorious lips descended onto his, her face backlit by the storeroom fluorescents. Bill allowed himself two seconds of heaven, make that ten, okay screw it, a full stanza, before turning away.

He was about to sputter this ain’t right or some such nonsense when Charlene entered the storeroom. Bill blinked. He was either hallucinatory drunk or suffering one mighty concussion. Seeing double. Two Charlenes looked down at him.

“I see you two are getting along just like I thought you would.” Charlene looked at Charlene. “Give the guy a chance to wake up, Carla. Otherwise you’re taking advantage.”

“He’s as cute as you said, Charlene. Sweet, too. You know what I like alright.”

“Twins know.”  

“Indeed we do.” Carla stroked Bill’s hair, laying the damp towel on his forehead. “Everything good out there?”

“Fine and dandy. Del and a couple cowboys ran them a-holes off, they was scooting anyway thanks to Prince Valiant here. Worried about getting sued or whatever BarcaLounger bikers worry about."  

“Mom and Dad good?”

“Yep, already having a time. Dad’s eating peaches and peanut butter, and Mom just bought a round. She wants to know if you’re okay.” Charlene shifted her gaze to Bill. “Del says take the rest of the day off, and I’m gonna dedicate 'Fist City’ to you for sticking up for my Sis."

Charlene turned to leave, stopping at the switch by the door. “You two coming out, or should I turn the lights off?”

Bill grinned, still goofy. He play-slapped Carla on the thigh. “Go have a shot with your folks, I’ll be out in a few.”

“Baby, that’s the one thing that separates me from my sister,” Carla cooed. “I can’t drink worth a damn.”

[amourfu]

#Without 2

I tried to give justice this island deserves into words. I tried to wrote the beauty of its landscapes. And yet I hesitate. To repeat the same lines as it were already used elsewhere throughout history, whether its in paintings, prose, poetry, music, or even geographical accounts, would be a waste of ink on a paper. Yes, the sky is blue here, it is clearer than any skies of the cities I used to lived. Yes, in the villages the air is good. Its breathable and not suffocating. Yes, it is rather magical when you smell the burning scents, the offerings, and all the indifferent stares circling the temples. Lots of lots of temples. All of it looks so deceiving and yet mysterious. Ah, thats the word I wanted to express: mysterious. This land is mysterious. Its almost unreal. It's not often that I'm intrigued by these things. Spiritual things. I used to make fun of it. Its a hippy thing and hippies doesn't deserve anymore repetition in any present or future historical accounts by all means, please. Let them be flowers that died. Let them be The Mansons. Let them eat peace. Let them have their englightenment drugs with all that pseudo rock and roll hipster music they always brag you about. Let them have Ginsberg and the beatniks. Let them citing Rexroth or Miller. Let them jingle all the way. Let them have the monopoly of virtue. I'll save the lsd and Diane di Prima for lonely nights ahead.

Okay, this is the positive vibes "eat pray love" white species wonderland. Although now it seemed to have lost all of its energy, this island of Gods, are drained by the all consuming, greedy, stupid, and spectacular colonial tourist. The proud bogans and crypto white supremacist goes on hunting for sex. Take a good look at those pedophiles! One. Two. Three. Run! They continue to occupy our spaces. Interior and exterior. We're helpless. Not a single space left out. They even colonised our hearts and mind. So the mystery is no more. The mysterious burned to ashes. And the ashes swept by the sea where she broke my heart and left. And there's nothing else to see but neon lamps of boredom. And there's only one languange to write. To represent. To describes. To rant and scream at the hollow empty heart. At ease. We shall sit and meditate. Lotus. Inhale. Exhale.

And thus the tale begin.

[nuggetsofrandomness]

Finally realizing pubic hair is sexy

Hey hippies, let’s talk body hair. You know me, I go straight to the point, I don’t like long introductions, so here we go.

Free The Bush Tote Bag by cosmictwas

I used to want to remove as much of a bush as I possibly could. Like many people, I was probably brainwashed by the porn industry into thinking that was attractive. But I’ve recently realized that not only it’s much less painful to just leave most it there (waxing a pussy = ouch), but it also looks better. Why force the hair into a weird un-natural shape that looks like a sideways mustache? Nobody has pubic hair that grows in a thin straight line. And you know who has zero pubic hair? Children. I think it’s in Californication that David Duchovny’s character says something like “I like when there’s enough hair to remind me I’m performing oral sex on an adult”. I don’t know the exact quote (or series, or movie…) but yeah, that’s kind of the idea, I prefer looking like an adult.

Why force the hair into a weird un-natural shape that looks like a sideways mustache?

Tweet

By removing so much hair, I was trying to look sexy, and I was trying to appreciate that haircut. Now that I only remove what I find too much and let the rest grow more naturally, I find it sexier because it’s made to go well on my body. That’s also why I stopped dying my hair. The default mode often looks way better. Or, like some other series character who’s name I don’t remember said, “I like the way God made me”.

Armpit Hair T-Shirt by DangerFaceDesign

I’m not ready to let the legs and armpits hair grow though. Not a true hippie you say? I’d argue that has more to do with what’s in your heart than what’s happening under your arms but hey, I don’t know everything! I wish I didn’t feel gross when I have super hairy legs but unfortunately I do. Brainwashed by society? Probably.

armpit T-Shirt by wearethecatfish

I’d like to know about the process that brings one to feel comfortable and sexy with untouched body hair. I think being visually exposed to it, as an alternative to the “no body hair” trend, could help. It’s nothing more than a fashion after all. You know how, when a new trend emerges, you sometimes find it stupid or ugly at first, then you see it so much that you start to like it. And next thing you know, you’re wearing high waist baggy jeans too. When we’re exposed to something multiple times, in various contexts, on different people, we begin to see the beauty in it, we start to understand what the hipsters find so cool about it. We become the sum of the people we hang out with, the music we listen to, the books we read, movies we watch. I heard a girl in a movie say to her friend (yes, this is my third very vague movie reference) that her breasts were beautiful because she had “70’s tits”. Before she said it, I didn’t find that said tits were particularly fantastic. They were not these perfect Hollywood boobs we’re so used to see. But I’m so suggestible that when she said that to her friend, my brain made a connection. “70’s, we like that, that’s groovy” and it made me realize that various kind of boobs could be super sexy. Same goes for the bush. I’d be curious to see what would shift in people’s minds if all videos on PornHub were replaced by vintage 70’s pornography!

No Bras Allowed In The Forest by cosmictwas

What about you, what brought you to be confortable with body hair, or what prevents you to be?

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[stormtheorchard]

Track by Track on ‘Colorado’ by Neil Young

1. Think Of Me

This one sounds a bit like ‘Buffalo Springfield Again’ from Silver and Gold. Sometimes I think that Neil isn’t a composer like Paul McCartney, or a lyricist like Dylan. He’s someone who just picks up a guitar and strums the same chords he’s been strumming since he first started playing as a teen and just sings what’s on his mind. I doubt very much he sat down and wrote these lyrics with a pen or a computer. He’s just gets on a roll and songs whatever bullshit comes into his head. And he’s an obscenely rich man who is allowed to indulge in all his obsessions, so it can be a bit of a one-track ride as a fan. But I do like this as an opening song. It’s very familiar.

2. She Showed Me Love

One of the things he’s obsessed with on this album is the environment and climate change. He’s goes on at length about, “Old white guys trying to kill Mother Nature.” It’s probably true that most climate change deniers are men of his vintage who can’t handle the fact that they’ve done this amount of damage to the world. I just wish he’d come up with a more palatable way of saying it. Because these lyrics are not going to turn anybody’s head. He sounds like a cranky old man banging on about the same thing he’s been banging on about for years now.

As an aside, the reason I’m listening to this is that I have a habit of not listening properly to the old guys. Even the old guys I like. When they’re playing a gig in Ireland or they have a new album out, I just assume that it’s not worth checking because they’re past it and they have nothing left in the tank. I actively avoided going to see Leonard Cohen during that great second wave of his career. (In my defense, I really don’t like that plinkety-plonk synth sound that he had on those albums, and the super layered midi instruments. And all the songs about naked women. I know he’s supposed to be a poet and all, but there are a few songs where there isn’t that much tonally between Leonard Cohen and Roy Chubby Brown. I’d love to see Leonard Cohen out there in the shorts and the goggles, doing Chubby Brown’s act. “You know they life is like oral sex - one slip of the tongue and you’re in the shit.” Could have been a lyric on Death Of A Ladies Man.)

Anyway, ‘She Showed Me Love’ is an old-style Crazy horse stomper, but just not a very good one. “Mother Nature pushing Earth in a baby carriage,” sounds like something bluted out in the moment as a placeholder, not a composed lyric. They’re going for the old days here, but it just goes on and on like a hippy ZZ Top. Nils Lofgren must be a real glutton for punishment, throwing his lot in with Neil AND Springsteen. That’s a lot of intensity to have in your life. While Bruce is out in Jersey blathering on about being a cowboy or whatever he’s into now, Neil is up a mountain in Colorado writing nursery rhymes about the environment. I’d personally rather hang with Neil, but that’s not an easy choice.

3. Olden Days

I love this one. It’s more musically rich than the first two songs. It does sound like he’s hit on a few interesting melodic and chordal things in the midst of a jam and written a song around them. However, I don’t know why he insists on writing songs in the key of D. His voice can’t handle it anymore, and he sounds really thin on these high notes. It’s the kind of thing I enjoy listening to it alone, but would make excuses for if I had the album playing in company. I don’t mind Neil struggling for these notes. Doesn’t bother me at all.

People have compared this album to some of the old Crazy Horse classics, but I think it’s got more in common with Silver and Gold than it does with Tonight’s The Night. I really like these grunge ballads that he does.

4. Help Me Lose My Mind

This is the song on the trailer for the documentary where he’s screaming at that poor old man that works for him - John Hanlon. He’s screaming like a child at him through the control-room glass about how his monitor isn’t working. First of all, what kind of a lunatic is using a monitor in the studio? How fucking loud are they playing?! How can the guy who’s talking about the environment and climate change be using so many extra resources that he doesn’t need in the studio? I do think if Neil Young was ever faced with what would actually be required in cutting our resources down to a manageable level, he actually wouldn’t be able to live his life.

- Maybe just have one guitar, Neil? - What do you mean? - Well, you can only play one guitar at a time anyway. Maybe have one spare. And instead of using these big tape machines that run on tubes and such, why don’t just get a DI for the laptop and we could record the whole album that way? - Okay. I’ll have one more look at the guitars I have out in the barn and pick two? - That’s another thing. I know you like having that big barn for your trains and amps and everything, but you could literally house ten families in that barn. Logistically, its hard to justify having all that space for amps and model trains. - But where will I play with my model trains? - Who knows? Set them up in your bedroom. Daryl won’t mind - she’s open-minded. The track can go round your bed, while you sit propped up by pillows with your conductor’s hat on - you’ll have a grand old time!

5. Green Is Blue

This one really works. Sounds like it could have been on Freedom and been better than most of the ballads stuff on that album. It’s another environmental song, but I think it works much better than the others. It’s less slogan-y and more subtle. The kind of song he can probably knock out in his sleep when he’s not focused enough to try and make every lyric scan like a protest placard. And a polar bear floating on a piece of ice from another time is total Rust-era time travel.  The least cheesy environmental song on here.

6. Shut It Down

“We got to shut the whole system down…” It’s not like he’s not right, but why does he have to say it in one of his worst songs? Jeebus, this is a drag. It reminds of what what Living With War might have sounded like if I had ever listened to it. “What about the animals/ What about the birds and bees?” I agree with you, you mad man! But gadzooks Neil, couldn’t you get Kendrick or someone to sing some of this stuff so that maybe a few people outside the circle of old hippies and hipsters that go to your gigs might hear it? Anyone who has ever bough a Neil Young album surely has surely gotten the message at this stage. The same way that Bob Dylan’s fans are now well-versed on the fact that he wishes it was the 40’s, Neil Young’s fans have a fairly good idea of where stands on the environment. He likes it.

7. Milky Way

This song is the business. Sounds like a mix between ‘Cowgirl in the Sand’ and ‘Danger Bird’ and loopier than either of them. “I was sailing in the Milky Way/Losing track of memories that weren’t that day.” The lyrics on this one are amazing and the band sound great. I think the older musicians can get these performances out of him. He’s trying too hard with The Promise of the Real to play up to being the cranky old fuck. This is an old-fashioned trip to space with Uncle Neil. “Libraries and museums, galaxies and stars…” The guitar playing sounds like he’s playing without a pick, which is something that always sounds great when he busts it out. Like Mark Knopfler’s stoner uncle.

8. Eternity

This is another tune where his voice cracks a bit, but it’s such a great song that it doesn’t matter. Apparently that’s Nils Lofgren is tap-dancing on the rhythm. You don’t get that shit with Bruce! That tap-dancing is the sound of a man dancing with glee at the thought of working with a proper artist. I can even take the ‘clickety-clack’ backing vocals. No-one else on the fucking planet with attempt something so ridiculous with a song like this, and do it with a straight face.

9. Rainbow of Colours

Why am I embarrassed by this song like it’s my dad singing it? And why do positive messages in songs always automatically sound cheesy? He’s sang every possible song he can about what’s going on inside his head, but when he tackles something real like racism, it just makes me cringe. But why? It’s a heartfelt, lovely sentiment that the world needs to hear. Why is it cheesy? Shouldn’t we get past that and just let this be a nice song about how we all actually feel? Maybe if we were all a bit more comfortable with mawkishness then the world could actually be a better place.

10. I Do

Back to D, and straining for every high note in sight. It’s a great song, though. I like that you can sort of hear chatter at the start. Kinda contradicts the aul’ coot screaming at the other aul’ coot on the documentary trailer. On headphones you can hear the snare drum rattling with the sound of the bass. Obviously some live playing happening here. There are some moments of some incredible art on this album, which is always what Neil Young had over his contemporaries - even Dylan and Cohen. He was always willing to look a bit mad and untrustworthy if he thought an idea was worth it.

But holy fuck, this is gorgeous. It’s recycling the chords from ‘Olden Days’ a little bit, but it makes it kind of like a theme. I think the subtler moments on this album are way more effective than the chest-beaters. He’s following weird trains of thought and making them sound beautiful.