#you see him perform these ridiculous flips at like 40—

[almakfi-m]

i am not immune to the little flip and roll that basim does over the back of his opponent instead of just dodging like a normal person

[m4rv3l-girl]

Saying Something Stupid

Bucky x Y/N

Sometimes things just slip out…

Requests Open!

Warnings: None. Just fluff!

The soft hum of a tune filtered through the compound’s kitchen, mingling with the gentle sizzle of something sweet in a pan.

The hour was early, most of the team still tucked away in their rooms, leaving the vast halls and polished countertops empty save for one person: Y/N. The floor was bathed in warm sunlight, casting long, golden shadows as she worked. And Bucky, who had only come down for a cold beer, paused just outside the kitchen at the sound of her voice.

She was singing softly to herself, her back to him as she swayed in time with the song. He recognized it immediately—a tune from the ‘40s that always brought a bittersweet twinge to his heart. Her voice was soft, but rich with emotion, and she sang with a quiet confidence that left him breathless.

“Don't let this parting upset you I'll not forget you, sweetheart…”

Bucky swallowed hard. It had been years since he’d heard someone sing that song, and something about hearing it here, in the compound kitchen, with Y/N at the stove, made his chest feel heavy and warm.

He didn’t dare move, just leaned his shoulder against the doorway, watching as she flipped something in the pan, still singing.

The lyrics carried him back to old dance halls and sun-dappled parks, to nights spent singing and dancing with friends who had been gone for longer than he cared to remember. But here, now, he felt something new—a warmth that filled in the cracks in his heart, a sense of belonging he hadn’t felt in years. Y/N was here, and her voice was bringing back all the good things about his past without the shadows. She brought only light.

It wasn’t until she turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel, that she saw him there. Bucky grinned sheepishly as her eyes widened in surprise.

“Bucky! How long have you been standing there?” she asked, a flush coloring her cheeks. The music fell silent as she turned off the burner, setting her utensil aside to focus on him. Her voice still held that warmth, that energy, but now there was something new: a spark of embarrassment that Bucky found incredibly endearing.

He shrugged, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Long enough to enjoy the show, Doll.”

She let out a laugh, shaking her head, but Bucky could see the delight in her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I mean it,” he said, crossing the room to stand beside her. “That was... really somethin���.” He paused, searching for the right words. “You’ve got a beautiful voice, Kitten. I haven’t heard someone sing like that in a long time.”

Her smile softened, and she ducked her head. “It’s just a song,” she murmured, but there was a glint in her eye that told him she knew it was more.

Bucky looked at her, wondering if she knew what her singing did to him, how it lifted the shadows he often found himself lost in. She didn’t know the half of it.

“Not to me,” he said, voice dropping low, almost reverent. He could see her gaze flicker, a shiver running through her as she looked at him, something unspoken passing between them.

“Well,” she started, clearing her throat, “if you’d told me you were here, I could’ve given you a proper performance.”

He chuckled, the low rumble filling the space between them. “Wouldn’t want to distract you while you’re cookin’. Smells amazing, by the way.”

Her eyes lit up. “I had a craving for pancakes,” she said, a little too quickly, like she wanted to cover the silence that had grown between them. “Blueberry, to be specific. Want some?”

“Wouldn’t say no,” he replied, leaning back against the counter, his arms folding casually across his chest as he watched her return to the stove. She worked quickly, flipping pancakes with practiced ease, and he couldn’t help but let his eyes wander over her—her face set in concentration, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the little smile she wore when she thought he wasn’t looking.

It was moments like these that Bucky cherished. They didn’t come often, but when they did, he held onto them, savoring every detail. She filled the spaces in his life that had once felt empty, brightening the corners of his mind that had been shrouded in darkness for so long. And in this light, he found a feeling he hadn’t dared to name until now.

As she plated the pancakes and turned to him, holding out a plate with a grin, the words slipped out before he could catch them.

“Thank you, darling. I love you.”

The words hung in the air, and Bucky’s heart stopped as he realized what he’d just said. He hadn’t planned it, hadn’t even thought it, really—it had just slipped out, as natural as breathing, like it was something he’d been saying for years.

Y/N’s eyes widened, her mouth opening slightly in surprise, the plate of pancakes momentarily forgotten in her hands. There was a flicker of something in her gaze—hope, maybe, mixed with a wonder that made his stomach flip.

He cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I, that…was stupid..uh, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did,” she interrupted, a soft smile growing on her lips. “I can tell when you mean it, Bucky.”

The warmth in her voice, the tenderness in her eyes, made him feel as if his heart might burst. He swallowed, searching her face for any sign of uncertainty, but all he found was love—love for him, unspoken but unmistakable.

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I did mean it.”

She stepped closer, setting the plate on the counter beside them, her gaze never leaving his. Her hand reached out, brushing his cheek with a touch so gentle it felt like a promise. “I love you too, Bucky. Always have.”

Those words, so simple, so honest, hit him harder than any battle he’d ever fought. All the walls he’d built, all the fears he’d carried, melted away in an instant. For the first time, he felt truly seen, truly known. And in that moment, he knew he was home.

He reached up, taking her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “You’re my whole world, Doll. I don’t know how I got so lucky.”

She laughed, her eyes sparkling as she laced her fingers through his. “By singing in kitchens at seven in the morning, apparently.”

He chuckled, pulling her close, her warmth grounding him in a way that felt like magic. “Guess I’ll have to start waking up early more often,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into her hair.

“Please don’t,” she teased, her voice muffled against his chest. “You’re terrible in the mornings.”

He laughed, the sound deep and free, and held her tighter, knowing he’d never let her go.

——————————————————————————————————

Enjoy the fluffiness? 🤭

[rainbow-demoness]

Two thoughts on this, posted the thoughts on the somewhat-recent transandrophobia discourse in a separate reblog since it's not related to this:

It's interesting that you note trans women are underrepresented in trans studies, and it reminds me of some things I've noticed over the years that would keep us out of there.

First, there's the matter that trans studies is a branch of gender studies. As a rule, people being raised as boys aren't encouraged to go into gender studies (and, at least where I studied, it used to be called women's studies), and they overwhelmingly don't. Admittedly, the few that do have an outsized chance to be trans women, but they're still a tiny minority. Meanwhile for people raised as girls it's at least considered an option. And anyone being raised as a girl who rebels against that gender as such has a good chance of being drawn to gender studies as a way to express his frustration with gender and society's treatment of it. So you get a lot of transmascs there. Maybe if we chose a degree in our 30s or 40s this would flip, but at 18 a lot of people either don't yet know they're trans, or haven't yet been able to transition to the point of actually getting treated and encouraged as their proper gender.

Second, there's an anecdote that's been going through my head lately. Years ago, I read about a guy who did attend a gender studies course. In a particular lecture, the subject was about gendered interactions in sexuality. A question came up (I think prompted by the lecturer) about why guys are so obsessed with wanting girls to perform certain acts on penises that can be seen as degrading (I forget the details. Oral? Worship?), especially in porn. And this guy, the only one with a penis in the room, spoke up. He said it was about feeling accepted, acceptable. About spending an entire lifetime feeling dirty and guilty and ashamed and judged as dangerous for having a penis. And how those acts, someone without a penis symbolically enthusiastically accepting one as something she'd leave herself vulnerable to, made him feel like less like a monster.

The entire class ridiculed him, lecturer joining in. Nobody believed that men are made to feel monstrous for having a penis: they are celebrated, was the consensus. And probably that is largely correct, though it still feels rude and unkind to tell the only person with a penis in the room that you know better than them how it feels to grow up with a penis. But by and large, I do believe men are not made to feel monstrous for having a penis. Trans women are. I'm now at least 80% sure that this guy was a trans woman who likely didn't know that about herself yet. Every feeling she confessed to in that lecture sounded like genital dysphoria to me, and she got chewed out for it. I don't know, or have forgotten, what happened after that incident. But I don't imagine she felt like gender studies was a good place for her after that.

I'm not sure what to do about either of these effects. Maybe I, at age 31, should look at getting a degree in gender studies, be the change I hope to see. It feels economically unfeasible, but it's something I might look at if I can. At the very least, it seems something worth mentioning, to underscore that this underrepresentation is not random.

I don't think there is a significant or notable number of people who believe transmascs are not oppressed.

I feel slightly insane just having to type this out, but this is rhetoric you inevitably come across if you discuss transfeminism on Tumblr.

The mainstream, cissexist understanding of transmasculine people is the Irreversible Damage narrative (one that's old enough to show up in Transsexual Empire as well) of transmascs as "misguided little girls", "tricked" into "mutilating themselves". It is a deliberately emasculating and transphobic narrative that very explicitly centers on oppression, even if the fevered imaginings misattribute the cause. As anyone who's dealt with the gatekeeping medical establishment knows, they are far from giving away HRT or even consults with both hands, and most transfems I know have a hard enough time convincing people to take DIY T advice, leave alone "tricking" anyone into top surgery.

Arguably, the misogyny that transmasculine folks experience is the defining narrative surrounding their existence, as transmasculinity is frequently and erroneously attributed to "tomboyish women" who resent their position in the patriarchy so much they seek to transition out of it. This rhetoric is an invisiblization of transmasculinity, constructed deliberately to preserve gendered verticality, for if it were possible to "gain status" under the sexed regime, its entire basis, its ideological naturalization, would fall apart.

Honestly, the actual discussions I see are centered around whether "transmisogyny" is a term that should apply to transmascs and transfems alike. While I understand the impetus for that discussion, I feel like the assertion that transmisogyny is a specific oppression that transfems experience for our perceived abandonment of the "male sex" is often conflated with the incorrect idea that we believe transmasculine people are not oppressed at all. This is not true, and we understand, rather acutely, that our society is entirely organized around reproductive exploitation. That is, in fact, the source of transfeminine disposability!

I know I'm someone who "just got here" and there is a history here that I'm not a part of, but so much of that history is speckled with hearsay and fabrication that I can't even attempt to make sense of it. All I know is that I, in 2024, have been called a revived medieval slur for effeminate men by people who attribute certain beliefs to me based on my being a trans woman who is also a feminist, and I simply do not hold those views, nor do I know anyone who sincerely does.

If you're going to attempt to discredit a transfeminist, or transfeminism in general, then please at least do us the courtesy of responding to things we actually say and have actually argued instead of ascribing to us phantom ideologies in a frankly conspiratorial fashion. I also implore people to pay attention to how transphobic rhetoric operates out in the wider world, how actual reactionaries talk about and think of trans people, instead of fixating so hard on internecine social media clique drama that one enters an alternate reality--a phantasm, as Judith Butler would put it.

Speaking of which--do y'all have any idea how overrepresented transmascs are in trans studies and queer theory? Can we like, stop and reckon with reality-as-it-is, instead of hallucinating a transfeminine hegemony where it doesn't exist? I'm aware a lot of their output isn't particularly explicative on the material realities of transmasculine oppression despite their prominence in the academy, but that is ... not the fault of trans women, who face extremely harsh epistemic injustice even in trans studies.

The actual issue is how invisiblized transmasculine oppression is and how the epistemicide that transmasculine people face manifests as a refusal to differentiate between the misogyny all women face, reproductive exploitation in particular, and the contours of violence, erasure, and oppression directed at specifically transmasculine people.

You will notice that is a society-wide problem, motivated by a desire to erase the possibilities of transmasculinity, to the point of not even being willing to name it. You will notice that I am quite familiar with how this works, and how it's completely compatible with a materialist transfeminist framework that analyzes how our oppression is--while distinct--interlinked and stems from the same root.

I sincerely hope that whoever needs to see this post sees it, and that something productive--more productive dialogue, at least--can arise from it.

[hyphyphurray]

Harry tapped the Instagram filter and made a duck face.

“WHAT GAY COMBO ARE YOU?” the app blared, before flipping through two sets of stereotypical descriptors.

The 22 year old twink had laughed at some of the improbable combos that had been ascribed to his friends on his feed and had to give it a try. What would Harry get? Himbo e-boy? Soft jock? Dom twink?

Flick, flick, flick.

“HIPSTER-DILF,” the app read.

The twink practically howled in response.

“OMG!” he yelled, his phone's camera still recording.

It was then that Harry saw how he looked on the phone's screen. The digital version of himself was changing. Tattoos were crawling over his arms and hand as dark swaths of hair erupted in furry fields on his avatar's chest.

“Oooo Zaddy!” Harry chuckled at this, in awe of the app's photo-manipulating software. The miniature version of himself packed on muscle and years, growing taller and beefier. His pecs grew meaty as his blonde hair turned black, and then salt and pepper. And that shaggy beard! OMG, hi-LAR-ious!

Could you even imagine? Harry thought. All that hair- ick!

A pair of silver rings formed on Harry's screen, and an earring. A golden knit cap wrapped itself around his digital head.

Honestly, this ridiculous pairing was.... actually super hot. Harry gave a couple of his trademark poses and watched his screen-bound, rapidly butch-er self do the same.

The Hipster-DILF looked like he was trying so hard, and yet knew he was sexy enough that he didn't have to try at all. It was all so... performative, and ironic, and silly, and... really hot. Seeing that beefcake act like he was some too-hip-for-you twenty-something who never grew up, who would pick you up at the gym, but then rail you to the sounds of his vinyl connection in his loft apartment... He could almost remember the sounds of that Thelonius Monk record... or the taste of his pre-workout powder...

Harry shook his head and looked down at his hairless, 22-year old frame, a tight pink and white tank top clinging to his go-go boy body. Who the fuck was Thelonius Monk? And as if he'd act like some fucking gym rat!

He looked back at the screen, where a little loop of the Hipster-DILF posing and duck-face-ing played over and over. It was so... not him. This was funny, right?

“OMG CLOCKED!” he tapped out and then paused. His thumb hovered over the “POST” button.

He clicked.

The sound of drums.

That solo.

Fuck, Harry thought, Goddamn Kenny Clarke. They don't make 'em like that anymore.

He pawed idly at his hairy pec.

Chest day today, he thought.

He looked up from his phone and grinned into the mirror.

His bearded face grinned back, below a dark mustard knit hat. He stretched, eyeing his massive body. Salt-and-pepper hairs all over caught his eye. His back was a little tight, but for pushing 40, he was looking fucking hot.

Harry's eyes flicked back to his phone. Oh right. Some app.

“WHAT GAY COMBO ARE YOU?”

A hilariously young and hairless version of himself danced in a loop, with the words “BITCHY TWINK” floating above. He smirked in spite of himself at the broad, low-hanging fruit that passed for humor these days. Everyone boiled down to a word or two, reduced to a basic 2D stereotype. Still, picturing himself as some vapid, tiny plastic-y gayboi was funny, in an ironic sort of way.

Could you even imagine? Harry thought, walking into the kitchen of his loft to grab a protein bar.

“LOL,” he said in a fake, high-pitched voice, as the jazz hummed along.

[w2hazbin]

“Addict” analysis by W2

(requested by @legionarebrainy​)

The music video “Addict” was well-received by the fans of Hazbin Hotel and got a million views ridiculously fast. Besides the killer song and superb animation, it also gives us a closer look at Angel Dust, the only resident of the Happy Hotel.

So what exactly makes this video so great? Let’s take a closer look.

I think the start of the song is very telling:

“Till death do us part

But we're already past that phase

This is a brand new start

And I think I deserve some praise

For the way that I am

Despite having overdosed

And ending up comatose

I don't give a damn

I've let my emotions go

Fuck being a sober hoe”

So far, we don’t know much about Angel Dust besides that he was a gay man who died in the 1940s after an overdose. Angel is an asshole, but he is also a victim of fate since homosexuality was not exactly treated with... kindness back in the 40s. So when he ended up in Hell, he might have seen it as a possibility to start fresh since the sinners are free to do whatever the fuck they want and do not have to worry about consequences since, well... they are dead and in Hell. So Angel says “fuck being a sober hoe” and do all the drugs he wants since he can’t die of overdose, and he can have sex with as many dudes without worrying about the consequences. 

Angel likes attention and clearly gets it as a “slut.” Like when he performs as a pole dancer. And his boss Valentino, one of Hell’s overlords, is one of his fans. We even see something that could be mistaken as chemistry of a sort between the overlord and Angel(it’s not, but we will get to that).

But the gleeful slut Angel Dust is a lie. We get tiny flashes of Angel’s life outside his performances.

We see Angel being miserable and that his apartment is a mess. Despite being a porn star, his apartment is shitty. His best friend Cherri Bomb is there and is trying to comfort him, but note that he has her back to her as if he is embarrassed. And Cherri also looks like she is unsure what to do since she knows that he doesn’t want what he would consider “pity.”

We also have a montage of Cherri running around while either blowing up buildings or setting them on fire. It seems random at first, as if she is just doing it for the (no pun intended) hell of it. But it is implied she is wrecking Valentino’s property, like strip clubs and signs advertising him. It could be her very aggressive way of being passive aggressive toward the scumbag who makes Angel’s afterlife a (I swear, it’s not on purpose) living hell.

We see how awful Valentino is as he takes most of the money Angel earns and then forces himself on him. Angel is trapped in an extremely unsexy and horrible situation where he is essentially Valentino’s toy.

It is also implied that Cherri had her fair share of abuse in the past from this part of the lyrics:

“Yeah, you fell in love

But you fell deeper in this pit”

That, and we see glimpse of a one-eyes demon that Cherri apparently doesn’t remember fondly. Someone who made her “fall deeper in the pit” if I’m guessing right. So perhaps she can relate to the abuse Angel is living through. She apparently taught Angel everything she knows about causing destruction, perhaps so he had a chance of rebelling against his abuser?

The fact that they burn down the strip club Angel performs in at the start of the video does seem like a giant fuck-you toward Valentino who owns the place.

But they do not accomplice much with these acts since Valentino is powerful and wealthy and can just rebuild that place. It’s probably more of an annoyance than anything else. What Angel and Cherri do is more or less the same as toilet-papering someone’s house. Sure, it is revenge, but it is a hollow victory since it won’t actually change much as you only annoy the person. Yeah, they get satisfaction of sticking it to Valentino, but it’s not like they do it to his face. And they shouldn’t, since he is an overlord demon and can make their stay in Hell worse than it already is.

The video ends with Angel at the Happy Hotel who clearly looks unhappy, but he pulls away when Charlie tries to reach out, he even flips her off. Rather heartbreaking since Charlie genuinely wants to help Angel without any hidden agendas, but Angel is too proud to admit that he might need help.

A nice detail is Angel’s room where we see dresses and wigs. Seems like he has a passion for Drag shows. So he must at some point have given up on being a drag queen and instead became a porn actor. That adds another layer to Angel’s tragic afterlife as we see what looks like a broken dream. So much for “brand new start.”

The video ends with what I consider Angel Dust’s “sober” moment:

“I’m addicted to the sorrow

and the buzz ends by tomorrow

There’s another rush of poison flowing into my veins

Giving me a dose of pleasure that resides by the pain”

So Angel knows that his lifestyle is hurting him. He is addicted to living in a way that makes him miserable simply because it gives him a temporary adrenaline rush that he knows won’t last for long.

The thing about living in pain is that it can be hard to consider that your life could be different, some even justify their pain, telling others that you are more than fine. And that’s exactly what Angel does, he brags to Charlie and Vaggie that he is a hot piece of ass and that everyone wants him, That he is a celebrity. But the truth is that he is the abused lapdog of one of the meanest bastards in Hell. Practically no one respects Angel at all. He even had to perform certain... services to his landlord before living in the Happy Hotel since he couldn’t pay his rent. But he graves the rush so badly that he sticks with the moth demon.

But there might be hope. Sure, he doesn’t actually think Charlie’s little experiment actually works, but: “Maybe things won’t be so terrible inside this hotel.”

[swanlake1998]

Article: Julie Felix: the brilliant Black ballerina who was forced to leave Britain

Date: March 3, 2021

By: Steve Rose

(CW: racism, anti black racism, police brutality, violence, murder mention)

She was told there was no room for a ‘brown swan’ in the London Festival Ballet, so she went to the US. There she found enormous success, dancing for everyone from Michael Jackson to Prince

The turning point in Julie Felix’s career came in 1975. A student at Rambert ballet school in London, she was selected to dance in Rudolf Nureyev’s production of Sleeping Beauty with the London Festival Ballet (now the English National Ballet). Nureyev was the god of British ballet – and he lived up to his reputation on the first day of rehearsal, Felix recalls. “He was late, but everybody said he was always late. All of a sudden, the doors flew open and in he came. He was well renowned for these big boots he used to wear, and a big fur coat. He took the coat off like a matador and threw it so it slid across the dance studio floor. Everybody jumped up and stood to attention. He was there for probably about half an hour.” At the time, 17-year-old Felix was awestruck. In hindsight, half a century later, she is less impressed: “Talk about unprofessional.”

In the fairytale version of Felix’s life, having acquitted herself on stage with Nureyev, she would have joined the London Festival Ballet and become the first Black British dancer to begin her ascent through the ranks of a British ballet company. Instead, she was told she was a “lovely dancer”, but was not going to be given a contract, “because of the colour of my skin. I would mess up the line of the corps de ballet, because you can’t have a whole row of white swans and then there’s a brown one at the end.”

Felix was stunned: “It hit me like a thunderbolt.” Her mother was white British and her father African-Caribbean, from Saint Lucia. She had never thought of the refined world of ballet as being what we might now describe as institutionally racist. “It sounds ridiculous, but because I didn’t experience any racial issues or difficulties before that, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with the colour of my skin. I thought that I was talented and that would be enough.”

Having grown up in Ealing, west London, in the 60s, Felix certainly knew about racial difference. She rarely saw any faces that were not white in the neighbourhood or at school, she says. After her parents had met on a bench in Hyde Park, her mother’s family disapproved. “They said: ‘If you marry that man, we’re going to disown you.’ And my mum just said: ‘Well, fair enough, I still want to marry him.’”

Her father, who worked as a foreman at the Hoover factory, was quite the charmer, says Felix. “He was the proudest man. He would paint the front door a different colour every year. He was always up the ladder washing his windows. He would grow fruits and vegetables in the back garden. But I would say my dad had a big chip on his shoulder.”

She describes how he would dress like a dandy, in 40s suits and spats, even if he was just going to do the shopping. “He would always berate the grocers and say: ‘You’re picking the bruised fruit and vegetables because I’m Black. You think I can’t see this?’” She laughs. “Why would you move somewhere if you’re going to spend your life being concerned about the way other people look at you and your colour?”

There was an incident when she was eight or nine, when her father returned from work very late, his shirt ripped and covered in blood. A colleague had attacked him outside the factory gates with a meat cleaver on a chain. “He didn’t like, one, the way my dad spoke to him and, two, because my dad was Black,” she says.

Culturally, the Felix household was “100% British”, she says. She had no connection to her Saint Lucian family, although she would see her British grandparents in Essex regularly (relations had thawed when Felix’s elder sister and she were born). Musically, her father liked American crooners such as Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole; her mother preferred classical music and had once aspired to be an opera singer. “So, when it came to my wanting to dance, there was a local ballet school around the corner in Ealing that I would go to, and Mum said: ‘Well, as long as you keep working hard and you’re enjoying it, I will fund it for you.’ She wasn’t a pushy, stereotypical ballet mother, but she knew that I loved it. And because she’d been stopped doing what she wanted to do, she was there 100% for me.” When she passed the audition for the Rambert, her parents could not afford the fees; Felix won a grant from the Inner London Education Authority, which paid 75%.

Felix says no one is “born to dance”, but, as a student, her passion for ballet was boundless. “I can remember the feeling of waking up in the morning, earlier than I needed to, getting on the underground and going into Notting Hill Gate, where the school was. I was the first one in the door. The cleaner was still there.

“I could not get enough of it. My friend and me would stretch and practise our fouettés in the lunch break. We’d be the last ones out of the building. Get back on the train, go home. My feet would be bleeding. I’d have blisters all over my toes. And I didn’t care. I just knew this was what was required. I soaked my feet in salt water, dabbed surgical spirit on them to get the skin to heal and get them dried out so that I could get up the next morning and get on that train again.”

After all her dedication, being rejected for her colour was devastating. “It didn’t last long, mind you,” she says. “Part of my personality is: sink or swim. And I thought: ‘I am not going to sink here.’ So I just flipped it around and just said: ‘Watch me. I’m going to show you I can do it.’”

She didn’t have to wait too long. The previous summer, the Dance Theatre of Harlem (DTH) had come to perform in London. This was a pioneering Black ballet company founded in 1969 by Arthur Mitchell, the first top-flight Black dancer in US ballet. While they were in town, Felix went along, auditioned for Mitchell and was immediately offered a contract. She declined. When her teacher at Rambert found out, “she absolutely hit the roof”, Felix recalls. “She said: ‘You can’t pick and choose. You’ve been offered a job!’” Fortunately, the DTH returned to London a few months after her Nureyev experience. Felix auditioned and was offered a job a second time. She did not turn it down.

This time, Felix’s skin colour was to her advantage, although working with an all-Black company in the US was a curious reversal: “I’d gone from all of my ballet training, and growing up not really being aware of anything to do with Black people, to going to New York and there’s no white people.” Before relocating to New York, Felix had never had a passport, left the UK or flown in an aeroplane.

“Within two weeks of being there, Arthur Mitchell said to me: ‘We’ve got to knock the British out of you.’ And I took umbrage, because I’m really proud of being British,” Felix says. In retrospect, she knows what he meant: “It was the wishy-washy way I approached my technique and my ballet training. But it wasn’t just about that; it was everything that Arthur Mitchell taught and portrayed and wanted us to portray within our work. He wanted to show that Black people really can do this.”

DTH’s sense of purpose aligned with Felix’s own. She stayed with the company for 10 years, earning her place as a soloist and touring the US and beyond (including a satisfying return to the Royal Opera House). Life in the US put British racism into perspective, says Felix. In her first week in New York, she witnessed a young Black man being shot dead in the street by two white police officers for shoplifting. A touring performance in Mississippi in 1978 had to be cancelled because the Ku Klux Klan staged a protest outside the theatre, in white hoods, burning cross and all. “No words can describe that feeling,” she says.

There were more good times than bad, though. Felix shared the stage with, and danced for, luminaries from Ronald Reagan to her hero, Luciano Pavarotti. She danced with Lionel Richie to All Night Long at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics closing ceremony; visitors to her shows included Michael Jackson and Prince. Jackson wanted to cast the dancers in his ill-fated Peter Pan movie, she says. He came to a matinee in Pasadena, California, supposedly incognito, but in full Jackson regalia: black sunglasses, Jheri curl and military-style outfit, with a complement of bodyguards. “I was annoyed, because I was there to deliver the performance, but you had all these girls screaming in the audience,” says Felix. “Anyway, after it finished, he came backstage and said to us, very, very quietly: ‘I really enjoyed your performance. I just think you’re fantastic.’ What a humble man.”

A year later, Prince came to a show, by coincidence at the same theatre. He was similarly “incognito”, in a sequined, hooded purple cape. He never took the hood down. “At the end of the performance, he got back in his limo and left and didn’t say thank you, hello, anything. Really quite rude.”

By 1986, aged 30, Felix was beginning to feel the physical toll of ballet life. She also missed home. She returned to the UK and became a teacher and remedial coach for Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet, first in London, then in Birmingham, where the company relocated when it became Birmingham Royal Ballet, in 1990. She married and had three daughters (none of whom followed in their mother’s footsteps).

She then became head of dance at a local school. Now it was her turn to “knock the British out” of her students. “They don’t seem to know how to really push themselves,” she says. “Ballet is really painful. If you don’t feel that, then you’re not doing it properly.” Ballet has also always required a highly specific form of physicality, Felix points out. “It needs very arched feet, it requires good natural rotation of your hip sockets, a slender body, long, lithe muscles, long neck, small head.” Regardless of talent or musicality, she says, dancers who do not conform to this body type will struggle. Perhaps it is this inherent discrimination that has made other forms of prejudice easier to disguise.

British ballet has made some progress since the 70s, but it could do more. Birmingham Royal Ballet, for example, had a successful workshop programme with local schools, whose pupils were often from Black, Asian or minority ethnic backgrounds, but such programmes seem to have “fizzled out” as a result of local authority budget cuts, Felix says. On the other hand, there are institutions such as Ballet Black, which advocates for diversity in professional ballet. At the time of its founding in 2001, there were still no women of colour performing in any British company. The Royal Ballet recruited its first Black, British-born male dancer, Solomon Golding, only in 2013.

Felix is not convinced British ballet has turned the corner: “I still believe that we’ve got ballet companies who will take a few people of colour just to be politically correct.” However, she was heartened by the appointment of the Cuban-British dancer Carlos Acosta as director of Birmingham Royal Ballet in 2020, although the pandemic has so far curtailed its activities. While all British arts are vulnerable at the moment, ballet – with its high demands for time, labour, space and personnel – is especially so. Now based in Cornwall, Felix has made do teaching over Zoom for the past year. She is not complaining: “It really is a lovely place to be locked down.”

Felix’s skin colour began as a factor that counted against her, but it became an animating force in her career and led to a wealth of experiences and successes she might otherwise not have had. With that satisfaction, the anger she feels for her 17-year-old self being told her brownness would “mess up the line” has mellowed a little. “Their choice of not accepting me enabled me to find something within myself that I probably would never have known was there,” she says. “And then to open up this whole world for me. So I can say that hatred was turned to gratitude.”

[numbaoneflaya]

8, 21, 22, 26 for Caz , 25, 27, 29, 39 for Felria, 23, 30, 40, 43 for Suds, and 21, 25, 26, 35 for Nirn? 👀👀

HERE THEY ARE IM SJORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG GDSHEDG...

Caz

8. How does your character feel about religion?

Not a big fan! Hates the chantry and Andraste and the Maker and the Qun. Being raised in the circle run by templars and nuns and seeing the corruption of the church firsthand from the inside really left a bad taste in her mouth for organized religion.

21. What are your character’s manners like? What is their type of hero? Whom do they hate?

She has the ability to flip her manners on or off depending on who shes with. If shes comfortable then shes going to be more crass and impolite, but shes capable of really cleaning up her act and pretending to be professional if she needs to be. Her type of hero is anyone who goes against the status quo and disrupts systems of oppression- She considers Thurwen/the HOF and Hawke personal heroes (if Hawke sides with the mages) as well as Anders. Has read all of Anders manifestos and reports on Thurwen and Hawke and would geek tf out meeting them.

22. Who are their friends? Lovers? ‘Type’ or ‘ideal’ partner?

Friends are anyone who accepts her for who she is and doesnt snitch on her, people she can trust to do the right thing or atleast try to, and people she can have a good laugh with. Lovers are only a couple in the past as she needs to get to know someone well/find them interesting to want to sleep with them. Her type is large, charismatic and rugged. Anyone who looks like a good brat tamer but is also intelligent and keen. Iron Bull.

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste? Clothing? Hair? Appearance?

Everything is covered in tomes and journals but theres a method to the madness. She likes to keep her things organized, surprisingly. She likes cool colors like greens and blues, likes dressing comfortably. Oversized shawls that second as blankets and loose pants. Her hair she likes to keep down with the sides pulled into little braids in front of her ears.

Felria

25. What are their hobbies and interests?

People watching and painting! She knows how to blend into a crowd pretty well or how to find a hidden vantage point where she can just sit and watch people… for hours. She finds peoples behaviors/reactions fascinating and makes little journals of interesting things she sees. Finding how other people work differently than her is vital to figuring out how best to manipulate and control them and she loves learning new ways! And painting because she has an artist's eye and enjoys beautiful things. A few bottles of blood and a quiet evening in front of an easel is a great way for her to unwind.

27. How do they relate to their appearance? How do they wear their clothing? Style? Quality?

She relates her appearance with how easily she will be able to blend in or stand out of her surroundings, and how to dress in order to play the role she wants to play. Because of her line or work (professional assassin and information gatherer) she has to have a lot of costumes available to fit the personalities she plays. Shes a performer at heart but only for herself and the joy she gets in deception. Her own style, if shes not performing, is simple reds and blacks and silvers. She keeps her hair long so shes able to do more with it.

29. What is your character’s weaknesses? Hubris? Pride? Controlling?

Her pride could definitely be her downfall as well as her curiosity. She believes shes just better and different than everybody else and that its her right to play with people as much as she wants, I can see her eventually trying to play with the wrong person. She believes she can get out of any situation by herself without help and that she deserves the finer things in life, and if someone gets in her way, they deserve whatever harm befalls them.

39. What do they like to ridicule? What do they find stupid?

She will really ridicule anything and anyone because she finds most things stupid or benign. She likes to ridicule any of the gods and aedra, and anyone who worships them. She ridicules mortals and werewolves and any other creature that's not a vampire.

Suds

23. What do they want from a partner? What do they think and feel of sex?

Back in his youth he wanted spontaneous fun, a charming and outspoken person to sweep him off his feet. He always wanted someone to take him on adventures and be dangerous and in the moment. Now? Poor guy just wants commitment and someone genuine. Hes tired of charismatic liars who he always seems to fall for. He wants someone to help tend his garden and bond with the bees. He feels that sex is a sacred thing to be shared with people you trust, not something thrown around haphazardly. Relationship and trust come first with him, and he casually waves any flirtation most of the time as if he hadn't noticed it. He's been hurt too many times to trust easily like that.

30. Are they holding on to something in the past? Can he or she forgive?

Yeah hes holding onto a long ass past full of betrayal from the people hes held dearest to him :/ He by nature is a very forgiving person and believes one must be generous in forgiveness. Hes holding onto his past hurt from Felix and cant seem to get away from it- hes forgiven him many times and each time Felix just does the same things as before.

40. How is their sense of humor? Do they have one?

A little dual natured in this aspect. Generally pretty reserved and soft with other people and can seem serious to those who dont know him. Underneath that is his reputation as a trickster- fond of pranks and revelry. The little twinkle in his eye is the only thing that would give him away as the culprit when everyone is looking for who filled a bucket of mud over Nirns chamber door. His favorite kind of jokes are the really long ones, the ones that have a seemingly normal storyline and go on forever and then end in a way where the joke is really on the person listening. And everyone around goes “AAAUUGHH!”

43. Does your character have any secrets? If so, are they holding them back?

A lot of them! Hes a very good secret keeper as hes who many people go to with their problems. After being alive so long and being somewhat involved with politics he probably knows more than a few that could take down nations, and always seems to know whats going on wherever in the world. He has his connections, his mushrooms and his bees and such have eyes everywhere. And don't tell anyone but he is an ardent fan of juicy gossip.

Nirn

21. What are your character’s manners like? What is their type of hero? Whom do they hate?

Impeccable manners. The posture of a God, obviously. Always eloquent and polite, knows which spoons to use for certain dishes and common diplomacy practice from all over the world. Nirn has no heroes, hes never held anyone to a pedestal or been one for hero worship. If he had to choose hed say his mother, for how graceful yet ruthless she was in politics and trade. He also does not hate anybody, he considers strong feelings a weakness and to harbor such resentment would only make him act rashly. He dislikes the slovenly, though. Not the common man but the drunken aristocrat with wine breath who gambles his savings and acts impolitely.

25. What are their hobbies and interests?

Chess and games of strategy are some of his favorites in the odd chance he has any free time. He also plays the violin and the harp and the lute, instruments he's known since he was taught them as a child. Wine tasting as well! Hes one of those mfs who can just sniff a certain drink and say with precision the date time and location it was made.

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste? Clothing? Hair? Appearance?

Everything is refined and elegant with a certain air of someone who enjoys the arts. Many expensive paintings and sculptures on display. He prefers the colors red and gold and white, sometimes a darkish blue or purple. He is always dressed to impress, satin and velvet and exotic leathers. He keeps his hair long to the small of his back, or tied up in a bun. In appearance hes intimidatingly tall and knows how to stand to look even taller, does not tilt his head down to you but moreso stares down his nose.

35. Do they always rationalize errors? How do they accept disasters and failures?

Failure is only a means to greater success to him. To win a game sometimes you need to sacrifice a few pawns, etc. Takes them calmly and with little indication that hes upset at all. He usually has four or five backup plans for any endeavor, so hes able to quickly jump tactics if something isn't working. In game or battle hes typically a good sport at losing, though he very seldom does. Hed be more impressed that someone managed to make him fail, and get to thinking on how to get them in his employ.

[bnhascribbles]

Acrophobia

Hawks x Reader

Friendship, Secrets, Arguing; This was supposed to be something completely different, but stuff happens the way it does I guess. This was a hard one to trudge through and there MIGHT be a part 2 eventually if I can get through this slump I’m in. As always, thanks for reading!

Words: 3k

Warnings: swearing

Your bubble tea sweats in your palms, condensation gathering along the thin plastic and mirroring the layer of moisture clinging to your forehead.  Despite the heat (or maybe because of it), the air feels icy as it whisps across your cheeks. The sensation makes it impossible to forget exactly where you are, where you’ve been coerced to spend your lunch break.  You duck low, taking another gulp of your drink as you lean your back against the concrete barrier lining the rooftop.

It doesn’t help. Your tea—every dentist’s nightmare, infused with all sorts of artificial sweeteners—is bitter on your tongue.  The world seems fuzzy too, like you’re looking at a video taken by the world’s crappiest flip phone.  Underwater. With a cracked lens.  Through it all, you tingle from head to toe.  You’re half convinced you’ve got ant colonies ready to crawl out from beneath your nails.

So much for exposure therapy.  Whatever psychologist came up with that brilliant idea—overcoming your fear by throwing yourself into it—was probably some sort of sadist. Sure, it was a bit more complicated than just forcing yourself into an uncomfortable situation. You’d worked yourself up to this point. After what felt like thousands of appointments with your therapist, you could finally look at pictures of cliffs and feel nothing. You could close your eyes and imagine peering over the edge, seeing the drop. That was an easy thing to do when you were sitting in an office on the ground floor. This wasn’t easy.

You wish you could be more like Hawks. He had a “thing” for high places. It wasn’t entirely unexpected considering his quirk. He’d probably been flying for as long as he’d been walking, and what person takes the time to think about the pavement between steps?  To really consider the possibility that they could trip, crack their face on the cement and...whatever.  Never once in your many years knowing him had you ever seen him show an ounce of hesitation in his work.  Cartwheels performed midair, nosedives from thousands of feet up—it was like the man had no fear whatsoever. Not even the healthy kind. Maybe he believed he just couldn’t fall, not even if he tried.  

The tingling starts up again. God, what you would do to have some of that blissful arrogance of his. Distraction. You need a distraction. As if on cue, one presents itself in the form of Hawks’s ridiculous ringtone blaring out of his pocket.

“Shouldn’t you get that?” You ask, only pull your lips away from your straw for long enough to finish the question. 

If Hawks hears you, he does a god-awful job of showing it.  Rather than reaching into his jacket, doing anything he can to silence the sound of the Angry Bird theme—already nearing the end of its third repeat—he simply swings a leg over the same barrier you’d take cover behind. He seems completely unperturbed by the noise and the 40-story drop beneath the soles of his feet.  Even imagining the look of it is enough to make it feel like rooftop is rocking beneath you, less-than-solid. 

“It’s probably just the agency.” Hawks says, like that’s a perfectly normal reason to ignore a call in the middle of the day.

“All the more reason to answer it.  It’s your agency!”  When he doesn’t so much as turn back to look at you, you press on.  “What if it’s an actual emergency, huh?  What if some daycare somewhere is burning down and they desperately need society’s darling to go and do damage control?  Really gonna risk letting the whole of society crumble because you need a longer coffee break?”

Hawks twists so that he’s facing the rooftop, his coffee can pressed to his lips.  The phone rings and rings and rings, and he just stares down at you, unconcerned, with one eyebrow quirked upwards. Only when his phone finally goes silent does he let his smirk peek over the edge of his drink.

“Whoops.  Looks like I missed it.”

You shoot him a look.  He has the gall to grin.

“Don’t look so disappointed, now.  They’ll call back if it’s important.”

You roll your eyes and lean your head back against the wall.  “If you’re the best and brightest the heroes have to offer, then I’m honestly terrified of what’ll happen the day a competent villain decides to strike.  How a lazy bum like you ever got to be number two is still a mystery to me.”

“Hell, me too.”

You scoff.  “Liar.”

“Wow, there’s really no pleasing you, is there?”  Hawks laughs.  As usual, your chiding has absolutely no effect on that carefree air of his.  In fact, you have to think that it’s encouraging him, making him work extra hard just to see if he can’t get some sort of reaction.

“Not—“

You’re cut off by Angry Bird as Hawks’s phone rings to life a second time. You shoot the man a look that you’re sure embodies every ounce of the I-told-you-so energy you feel yourself exuding. Hawks sighs like it’s all such a hassle—this picking up the phone business—before he finally reaches into his pocket and peers at the screen. 

Something is different this time.  It’s almost imperceptible, but you see it nonetheless—the way Hawk’s eyes go wide for a fraction of a second. It’s over quick though, and he’s back to sighing as he balances his coffee can on the ledge beside him and tugs at the finger of his glove. 

“Guess I was right, huh?” You all-but sing. It wasn’t everyday you got the opportunity to hold something over him, and it wouldn’t be right to let this one pass. 

Hawks doesn’t take the bait. Instead of biting back with something witty (as he was always so fond of doing), he settles for muttering a heart hearted “oops” as he sideswipes his drink off of its perch. It plummets into your lap, and although the can is already empty, that fact doesn’t stop the surprised yelp you let out. 

“Hawks, you damn chicken—“

“Heeeeey, how’s it going?” Hawks says, speaking loudly, his voice so bright you can practically hear the grin stretching across his face. You give his leg a shove, and it swings back around to smack you in the shoulder with more force than you’re willing to attribute to momentum. “Nothing much over here. Same old same old. But keep talking—it’s been a while, and you know I miss hearing that voice of yours.”

Consider your curiosity piqued. You mouth “who” as you tap at his knee. Hawks casts you a glance, then places a finger to his lips in a silencing gesture that makes you grind your teeth together. 

“Hey now, what’s with the attitude? I did everything I could to be there, but you know how hero stuff is—” Hawks stops abruptly, and you manage to prop yourself up on your knees just in time to listen in on some incoherent chattering on the other end of the line. That’s about all you manage to catch. You can’t seem to pick up on anything from this mystery (?) caller, not when Hawks is interjecting with mmmhm’s and yeahs every second or two. You lean in to get a better listen.

Before you hear anything, Hawks stands, planting the soles of his feet on the narrow ledge and rising to his full height. It’s a sudden movement, and instinctively you make to follow him.

A stupid thing to do given the acrophobia.

The moment you rise—the very instant you catch sight of the open air just beyond the concrete barrier and remember what lies below—you drop back down to your knees. You inhale shakily and fight the urge to curl up into a tiny ball.

It’s absolutely ridiculous, you know. You’re not going to fall—you physically can’t. You’re on solid ground. Well, mostly solid.  There are offices below you, empty space for the roof to fill when it crumbled like a stale piece of bread. Then the ones even further down could do the same, then—

No. No. That’s a dumb thought. God, why were you always like this? Why was one, insignificant thing enough to just...set you off? Nothing had changed since you’d first braved the way up here. It was the same solid roof beneath your feet (that could still crumble). The same sturdy barrier against your back (that could still give way). You were with the same reckless companion, the one that always walked the thin line (or ledge) between safety and certain death. 

You begin to hyperventilate. Knowing who Hawks is talking to seems far less important now.

“No...no.  Listen, I—mmhm.” Hawks paces, still focused on his conversation. Then he turns to face the roof and sees you, your unfocused eyes, your trembling shoulders. He stands there for a minute, mouth opening, then closing. Like he wants to say something, but the words are just...stuck. 

Hawks’s wings make a smooth, whooshing sound, extending slightly as he hops back down to the roof. He squats down beside you, reaches out, but hesitates when he sees the way you flinch. Concern mars his features, and you take his hand in yours, scrambling to piece together some semblance of a reassuring response. He didn’t need to be worrying about you.  This was nothing and you’d be fine.

The voice at the other end of the phone speaks up before you do. You can’t make out a single word of it, but the way Hawks’s eyebrows furrow says enough. It isn’t a pleasant thing being said. You give his fingers a squeeze and he inhales sharply.

“It’s nothing, don’t—okay, I get it. I just said I get it. No use lecturing me now, I’ll be better. Prove myself to you.” Hawks glances up at the skyline, then to the door leading to the stairwell. His eyes eventually meet yours.

You’re good. You mouth the words and give his fingers a squeeze. Hawks stares for a moment longer, hesitant, then sighs.

“In fact, I’m on my way over right this second...yes, right now. Just so you know, I’m bailing on something important for you; does that make you happy?” There’s a pause. Hawks laughs, and you know the man well enough to know how fake the gesture is. Higher pitched than usual, less of a cackle, more of a grunt. It doesn’t sound right coming from him. “I knew it would. See ya’ in a few.”

He hangs up. Hawks doesn’t even have to speak before you’re cutting him off.

“Don’t say anything.”

Hawks frowns. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Yes you were. You were gonna ask if I’m okay, which I already told you I am. We don’t need to talk about it any more.”

“Is this a height thing again?” When you shoot a severe look his way, he pulls his hand away from yours and scratches at the back of his neck, exhaling. “We don’t need to talk about it any more.” Hawks echoes.

“Good.”

Barely a second passes. “...but you do know that you’re not gonna fall, right?”

“Hawks,” you groan.

“Statistically speaking, it just won’t happen. But even on the one in a million chance that it did—”

“—this really feels like ‘talking about it...’ ”

“—you really think I’d let you hit the ground?” Hawks continues, unfazed. He says it like it’s so simple. ‘Can’t fall if I’m here to catch you.’ Problem solved. 

“Mmmm, okay you’ve made your point. That’s a very good argument you have there, ” you offer, leaning forward on your knees and making a face like you’re deliberating on every word, “but see, the whole thing about irrational fears is...well, they’re kind of irrational.”

Hawks lets out a quick “hah” sound and shakes his head. He makes like he’s going to stand up, but you grab his arm and yank him back down. “Oh no, I’m not done with you yet. Tell me about this person you’re bailing on me for.”

“Like eavesdropping, do ya’?” Hawks jokes with an easy tone of voice.

“You weren’t exactly whispering. Besides, you didn’t sound too happy talking on the phone.”

“Because it was somebody telling me to stop enjoying myself and get back to work. Not something that’s really fun to hear.”

“Interesting.” You ponder out loud, intentionally. “What kind of work is ‘hero stuff’ keeping you from doing?”

“The same ‘stuff’ that’s gonna be pissed if I don’t get my ass in gear and go already.”

“Come on, Hawks.”

“Maybe next time.” Hawks sighs as he rises. What he really means is ‘no.’ He never says it outright though. He’d rather dance around questions of “when” or just lie outright and let you forget in the meantime. That way, the pair of you never have to have that conversation on how friendships are kind of supposed to be two-way things.

Sometimes, calling Hawks a friend feels wrong. He has habits and quirks you’ve come to recognize after knowing him as long as you have, true. But he’s still a mystery as far as his personal life goes. You know he never went to U.A. or some other hero school, but you don’t know why he started his agency in the first place. You know he likes coffee and snacks loaded with sugar, but you don’t know if he has any family to pester him about his lousy eating habits. You know he’s brave and proud and his smile can light up an entire room, but you don’t even know his real name. Really, the only thing that separates you from the hundreds of thousands of people that worship him from a distance is the amount he knows about you. 

Every time the pair of you meet, he sees fit to interrogate you about all the happenings in your life. Had you finally been assigned to that one project you’d been gushing about? Was your landlord still being an asshole about the plants you keep on your balcony? Were you ever going to check out that new club  on the other side of town? A little birdy told him it was good, and he thought it was your sort of thing... But everything always changes when you try to flip the conversation and talk about him. Hawks flutters around your questions like they’re nothing, uses jokes to derail the discussion or finds some excuse to leave. Information only floats in one direction with him.

If all you wanted someone to listen to you talk about your life, you’d see your therapist.

“Not the agency then.” You say, pushing yourself up to your feet. You’re going to fight to get anything you can out of the conversation. “So is it a girl?” 

Hawks begins to pull his gloves back on. “That’d make for a hell of a headline.” 

“Is it a guy?”

“Why? You jealous?” Hawks counters with that lopsided grin of his. He’s doing what he does best: he’s driving things in the direction he wants them to go. “You sure are asking a lot of questions today.”

“And you’re not answering any of them!” 

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re definitely not.” You say, and you mean for it to come out playful, but the edges of your frustration peek through the cracks.

Hawks’s hesitates. The corner of his smile twitches. “And you’re mad about it.” It isn’t a question. Your silence is an answer nonetheless. “Because I won’t tell you about a phone call?”

“It’s not just about the phone call, Hawks.” Hawks doesn’t respond after that. He knows. He’s far from the idiot he pretends to be. ‘Too fast for his own good,’ and his wit is no exception. 

“It’s fine.” You lie. “You’ve said it before: it’s a hero thing. There are going to be secrets I can’t know and I’ll just have to get over it. But it’s everything with you, Hawks. Everything is a secret. Heroes have to take off their costumes and turn into people at some point—even the fucking number one Endeavor becomes Enji Todoroki—but not you. You’re always just Hawks. Keeping everyone at an arm's length and pretending you aren't, me included.”

There’s silence, a tense moment where neither of you speaks. They don’t come often, and maybe that’s why it feels as strange as it does. There’s this...empty feeling deep in your stomach as Hawks stands there pulling his headphones over his ears.

“Hawks is my name.” Hawks finally says with a little bit of a lilt to it. Another joke, the only thing he knows how to do. And you laugh. Not because it’s actually funny, but because of course you should’ve seen this coming. The conversation is over—Hawks has made that clear in his own way. 

He’s still the untouchable number two, and you’re still out of your element. Why would he ever need someone like you looking out for him, caring about him?

“Not your real one.” You spit when Hawks turns his back to you. “But like everything else about you, that’s just a guess.”

Hawks peers over his shoulder at you. You don’t know why; he doesn’t get the chance to say or do anything before his phone rings for the third time that afternoon.

He mumbles a quick “shit” under his breath and he’s taking off, vaulting over the edge of the rooftop, becoming just another part of the cityscape. You usually try not to watch him take off; Hawks is comfortable in the skies, and that means he flies like a madman, narrowly avoiding collisions with billboards and edges of buildings by what looks like centimeters. This time though, you watch. You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him as he goes nearly vertical, soaring upward into a cloud bed only to reemerge from a completely different part as an obscure splotch of red on the horizon. You swallow down the sour taste on your tongue when he dives downward and gets lost in the glare of the sunshine. 

Standing there, obsessing like you always seem to, an image floods your vision. It’s as clear as the sight of your own hand creating craters in the remains of your cup. You see the crowd beginning to form. The blue and red flashes ricocheting off shop windows. The looks the officers shoot your way, the way they tug down the brim of their caps as you shove past and see the wash of crimson staining the street, the handful of feathers floating so easily on the air. You figure that even in the deepest parts of your imagination, he really doesn’t think he can fall. Doesn’t think he needs to give anyone the opportunity to catch him.

[mbl17]

Old Friends 4 Sale

One of the most ironic sentences we can give you from Neal Karlen’s new book This Thing Called Life: Prince’s Odyssey On and Off The Record is when he writes “If Prince reappeared again, I was sure, he would die a second time the moment he saw what was being done in his name, memory, and supposed honor” (Karlen, Prelude). Neal took this jab at other associates in the book’s prelude yet went on to dishonor the man he says he loved too. These folks are starting to sound like a broken record now. Quite a few people claim to have loved Prince Rogers Nelson but won’t miss an opportunity to breakdance on his grave for pay. Or to get out whatever grievance they have over some perceived slight from decades ago. Or both.

Neal Karlen is a journalist who became friendly with Prince in 1985 when he interviewed him for his Rolling Stone cover story. Neal and Prince maintained a relationship for 31 years that consisted of late-night phone calls about life, love, music, sports, and all the things friends talk about. Neal says he last spoke with Prince three and a half weeks before he died. The odd timing of the conversation left Neal feeling shaken and Prince didn’t sound like himself either.  Neal was so worried that he reached out to C.J. (yes, the probable Billy Jack Bitch inspiration) to interview him for Minneapolis’ Star Tribune just days before Prince’s plane made the emergency landing in Moline, IL. This was a supposed plot to anger Prince enough to get him to call Neal again. Really Neal? Despite 31 years of contact with Prince there was no other way to initiate a conversation with the man besides providing an interview to C.J. and saying you’re waiting for Prince to die and other ridiculous tidbits? We’ll take backtracking and flip flopping for a $500 because Neal knows these quotes are a bad look.

In 2019 Neal was asked by a friend of a friend if we really needed another Prince book? He admits that he had no answer until he was reminded of the thank-you note Prince had written to him after that first Rolling Stone interview. The note said “Thanx 4 telling the truth!” and Neal believes this gave him the reason he needed to write the book. To tell the truth about Prince. Whether or not this is Prince’s truth is up to you. Just like it’s up to you to decide if the things written in This Thing Called Life needed to be told at all even if they are true. Either way, we wish Neal had just come out and admitted that he’s here for a check and attention just like the other associates he has disdain for because they’re behaving badly. We’ve learned that lots of people who knew Prince seem to have their version of the truth about Prince and somehow their truth becomes more true than anything Prince ever said about himself.

One of the most alarming things that Neal recounts is Prince’s alleged discussions of suicide that began in 1985 when the Purple Rain tour abruptly ended. Neal says that Prince admitted to hurting himself on several occasions throughout the tour and feeling like no one would notice. In a nutshell, Neal Karlen doesn’t believe that Prince’s accidental overdose was quite so accidental. He sees Prince’s untimely death as a passive suicide because Prince never recovered from the loss of two children and blamed himself for not having the life he planned to aside from the music.

Passive suicidal ideation — thinking about, but not planning, one’s own death.

Wow. That’s a hell of a psychological assessment from a man whose lane is journalism. Then again Neal is inclined to think that Prince might have been cognitively impaired and had savant syndrome while condescendingly referring to him as “ignorant”, an “extraordinary nitwit” at times, and an autodidact who had read books that looked interesting, but was still full of “ignorance and misinformation”. Are we talking about Prince or Rain Man here? We’re not sure if Neal even liked Prince very much aside from his musical genius because he takes perverse pleasure in taking Prince’s persona down a notch whenever he can. In Chapter 15 Neal describes a 1998 visit from Prince that is beyond disturbing. Neal says he had broken a leg and Prince called to check on his recovery. During the conversation the topic switched to the unlimited Percocet Neal had received for pain management after his surgery. Neal found it strange that Prince offered to come by, and what was supposed to be a well-meaning gesture ended with Prince allegedly downing a third of Neal’s Percocet like candy while looking like “Uptown’s skankiest panhandler” (Karlen, Chapter 15). “Uptown’s...skankiest...panhandler.” Let that sink in. The audacity of THIS guy to call John Bream an ass clown.

Another questionable portion of the book has Neal discussing the tragic birth and brief life of Amiir Nelson. Neal says that Prince “faux-consulted” Mayte after Prince had already made his decision to turn off Amiir’s ventilator. He recounts a conversation with Prince six month’s after Amiir’s death and grossly describes a man who had just made a decision that most of us hope to never be faced with as speaking in a tone that “was flat and carried with it all the ain’t-that-a-shame emotion of someone killing time by recalling, shot by shot, a very, very bad movie that he’d wanted to walk out of but couldn’t” (Karlen, Chapter 13). It’s funny that Neal gives a nod to Mayte Garcia’s 2017 book, The Most Beautiful, which directly contradicts whatever Neal is working hard to imply here. In Chapter 9 of The Most Beautiful, Mayte says she was the one to suggest that they let Amiir go while Prince tried to persuade her to let the doctors perform additional procedures. She knew their baby was suffering and eventually Prince AND Mayte agreed together to take Amir off the ventilator. Now we’ve given Mayte a hard time around here over some things since 2016, but why would anyone take Neal Karlen’s version of events over Mayte’s?

It isn’t lost on us that Neal Karlen takes a direct hit at Prince’s portrayal of his parents and childhood in his own autobiography, The Beautiful Ones. Although Neal calls the book “artfully-written”, it’s easy to see that he had issues, big issues, with Prince being less than truthful about his life. It’s a running theme throughout This Thing Called Life. If Prince had made peace with Mattie and John and forgiven them for any sins and/or chose not to rip that bandage off again, did Neal really need to go there? It’s obvious that Prince had troubles at home that caused him to land at Andre Cymone’s house, but why is Neal so offended that Prince wasn’t always truthful with people? Prince didn’t owe Neal, any other associate, or fans 100% of himself. Neal says he can’t let Prince escape history, but it seems more like he’s looking to put as many dents in Prince’s armor as possible. Neal saw Prince as a man who didn’t learn true empathy and how to stop using people until he was roughly 40 years-old, yet Neal gives fans a book that lacks empathy for the situations Prince probably wanted to bury and he is certainly using Prince for his own needs. Neal calls Prince’s father, John L. Nelson a “slimy, reptilian motherfucker”? Well slimy, reptilian pot meet slimy, reptilian kettle. Neal believes that Prince wanted him to write This Thing Called Life because Prince allowed him 31 years of conversation? We’re doubtful about that because like most fans, we believe that Prince wanted to tell his own story in The Beautiful Ones. We’re also doubtful that Prince agreed to be recorded outside of the 1985 Rolling Stone interview where Prince seems to be aware that the tape recorder is present.

It should come as no surprise that those taped recordings of Prince that Neal included in the audio version of the book don’t back up any of the outrageous claims he’s making. There’s nothing scathing in the recordings at all to be honest. You want to know what’s included in the audio version? Brief recordings of interviews and stories that most Prince fans already know. There’s no recording of the allegedly vile comments Prince made about his own mother. There’s no recording of Prince unleashing vitriol about his father. There’s no recording to prove Prince’s decades long suicide talk. Nothing. Nada. If Neal is holding back recordings to prove the worst details in the book what would be the reason at this point when he’s already shown us exactly who he is?

Old, old friends for sale Get 'em while the gettin' is hot But you better watch out, they'll kiss you Until they get what you got And they'll show you the friends that they're not Old friends for sale 

        Prince, Old Friends 4 Sale

[antiporn-activist]

Do you know where to find good strategies of getting off of porn? I’ve been having issues with it for about 7 years, and I feel like I really want to quit, but my desires keep dragging me in, especially right before I menstruate.

i guess i don’t know of any forums specifically for women, but Fight The New Drug has a program called Fortify 

and I used to know the guy running a forum called Through the Flame, which seems to have changed its name to Guard Your Eyes

both of these sites may or may not have religious undertones, so if that bothers you it could interfere with your recovery.

i guess i’d also recommend bookmarking a series of antiporn materials, like the Dead Porn Star tribute video to watch instead.

And I can’t figure out how to link to the post, but someone added this to one of my posts - it’s a collection of stories from ex-performers that could put you out of the mood altogether:

Ex-porn star testimonies:

Corina Taylor: ”When I arrived to the set I expected to do a vaginal girl boy scene. But during the scene with a male porn star, he forced himself anally into me and would not stop. I yelled at him to stop and screamed ‘No’ over and over but he would not stop. The pain became too much and I was in shock and my body went limp.”

Jenna Jameson: ”Most girls get their first experience in gonzo films – in which they’re taken to a crappy studio apartment in Mission Hills and penetrated in every hole possible by some abusive asshole who thinks her name is Bitch.”

Alexa James: ”The first shoot I did was with a man who was probably 40 and he was as thick as a soda can. He held me down and shoved it in me with no lube tearing my vagina. When I started to tear up and cry he flipped me over and continued from behind be so they wouldn’t get me crying on film. He pulled my hair and choked me over and over again even when I told him it hurt and I could barely breathe.”

Linda Lovelace: ”My initiation into prostitution was a gang rape by five men, arranged by Mr. Traynor. It was the turning point in my life. He threatened to shoot me with the pistol if I didn’t go through with it. I had never experienced anal sex before and it ripped me apart. They treated me like an inflatable plastic doll, picking me up and moving me here and there. They spread my legs this way and that, shoving their things at me and into me, they were playing musical chairs with parts of my body. I have never been so frightened and disgraced and humiliated in my life. I felt like garbage. I engaged in sex acts for pornography against my will to avoid being killed.The lives of my family were threatened.”

Andi Anderson: ”After a year or so of that so-called “glamorous” life, I sadly discovered that drugs and drinking were a part of the lifestyle. I began to drink and party out of control! Cocaine, alcohol and ecstasy were my favorites. Before long, I turned into a person I did not want to be. After doing so many hardcore scenes I couldn’t do it anymore. I just remember being in horrible situations and experiencing extreme depression and being alone and sad.”

Alexa Milano: ”My first movie I was treated very rough by 3 guys. They pounded on me, gagged me with their penises, and tossed me around like I was a ball! I was sore, hurting and could barely walk. My insides burned and hurt so badly. I could barely pee and to try to have a bowel movement was out of the question. I was hurting so bad from the physical abuse from these 3 male porn stars.”

Jessie Jewels: ”People in the porn industry are numb to real life and are like zombies walking around. The abuse that goes on in this industry is completely ridiculous. The way these young ladies are treated is totally sick and brainwashing. I left due to the trauma I experienced even though I was there only a short time.”

Genevieve: ”I had bodily fluids all over my face that had to stay on my face for ten minutes. The abuse and degradation was rough. I sweated and was in deep pain. On top of the horrifying experience, my whole body ached, and I was irritable the whole day. The director didn’t really care how I felt; he only wanted to finish the video.”

Jersey Jaxin: ”Guys punching you in the face. You have semen from many guys all over your face, in your eyes. You get ripped. Your insides can come out of you. It’s never ending.”

Elizabeth Rollings: ”I didn’t want to feel the pain of penetration from an over average sized man, being told to freeze in a position until the camera man was happy with his shots was very painful. I had peoples body fluids forced on my face or anywhere else the producer pleased and I had to accept it or else no pay. Sometimes you would get to a gig and the producer would change what the scene was supposed to be to something more intense and again if you didn’t like it, too bad, you did it or no pay.”

Lucky Starr: ”I was worried about my first anal scene for quite a few days … then the big moment arrived. It REALLY hurt! I almost quit and said, “I can’t do this”. When it was all over, I was so happy and relieved I was able to do it…”

Ashlyn Brooke: ”I honestly felt that if I had to have another strange man in my face, his hands (God knows where they’ve been all over me) him calling me his baby and having to exude some sort of forged passion for the world to see, I probably would have exploded. And what would have been stuck to the walls would have probably been nothing, just pieces of skin, bone, the brain of a robot, and what would have been left of what would have existed once as a huge and warm heart.”

Roxy: ”After only 30 movies I caught two sexually transmitted diseases. Herpes, a non-curable disease and HPV, which led to cervical cancer where I had to have half of my cervix removed. Porn destroyed my life.”

Anita Cannibal: ”Yeah, there are a lot of cover-ups going on. There is a lot of tragedy. There are a lot of horrible things.”

Tamra Toryn: ”As for myself, I ended up paying the price from working in the porn industry. In 2006, not even 9 months in, I caught a moderate form of dysplasia of the cervix (which is a form of HPV, a sexually transmitted disease) and later that day, I also found out I was pregnant. I had only 1 choice which was to abort the baby during my first month. It was extremely painful emotionally and physically. When it was all over, I cried my eyes out.”

Jessi Summers: ”I also did a scene where I was put with male talent that was on my no list. I wanted to please them so I did it. He put his foot on my head and stepped on it while he was doing me from behind. I freaked out and started balling; they stopped filming and sent me home with reduced pay since they got some shot but not the whole sce

[edharrisdaily]

Ed Harris Has No Idea What’s Happening on Westworld Either

Ed Harris has enough iconic characters in his 40-year career to make other actors jealous — and that was before he added Westworld’s Man in Black to his repertoire. We’ve learned more about Harris’s character, the ultimate player of the game, in season two of HBO’s epic drama as he has progressed deeper into the park amid a robot uprising. In Sunday’s episode “Vanishing Point,” Westworld reveals the most traumatic moment of William’s life — the suicide of his wife, Juliet (Sela Ward) — and pushes him to the absolute edge of cruelty and sanity: After shooting his own daughter, Emily (Katja Herbers), he’s last seen slicing open his arm to see if he’s actually human. Ahead of the episode, Vulture spoke with Harris about “Vanishing Point,” why he’d never want to direct an episode of Westworld, what he thinks of the show’s fandom, and why he loves Atlanta.

Westworld is a famously secretive show. How much of William’s arc do you know in advance? And how does that affect the way you play the character?

The first season was different than the second season. The first season was full of surprises as to what was revealed to almost all of us every episode. We found out things in like episode five, six, and seven and were like, “Wow, that’s news.” The second year, I knew the path that my character was on and where I was headed.

How is this project different from others you’ve worked on?

I’ve never really done this kind of episodic series, so that’s different unto itself. And the length of the season is pretty long. The first year was ridiculous. We stopped and started again — six, seven, eight months. You work two, three days a week max, some weeks you don’t work at all. And this particular show is so complicated. There’s so much being shot. The end of the second year, they had three or four crews working on different episodes. I’m glad I’m not the person trying to keep track of it all.

When even the writers aren’t sure of the backstory, how does that change your approach?

Even when they are sure, they don’t tell you. [Laughs.] I would say, “Hey, look, I just did 125 performances of a play in London. I knew what was going to happen every night. And I was still very present and fresh. You can let me know whatever you want to.” What I didn’t know, I didn’t know. I was going episode by episode, particularly scenes, characters, who I was working with, and what was going on. I didn’t really fret about what I didn’t know because I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

More in the moment.

Very much so. For me, anyway. I took it a script at a time, scene at a time, line at a time. Be present and real and tell the truth.

What’s the most challenging part of this role?

In terms of where it’s going, I guess the difficult thing is just gauging that and trying to understand it. For instance, the episode Lisa [Joy] directed, episode four, she was great to work with because she knew more about [William’s] intent than I did. She was very helpful, in terms of “this is what’s going on inside of him now and this is where it will lead.” When you play a character, you try to get as deep in there as possible. When certain things are revealed to you, it’s very helpful.

How much of the buzz around the show do you pay attention to? The fandom is pretty vocal.

Absolutely none. My wife, who’s a news junkie, will say, “Ed, they’re writing about blah blah blah,” and I’ll say great. I’m very happy it’s a successful show and I love working with the directors and the cast, but I don’t really pay attention to all of the guesswork and what people are trying to figure out.

Is this true across your career? Do you read your reviews?

I really don’t. I remember things that were said to me when I was 28 doing theater in L.A. that I don’t need to have in my head, you know what I mean? If you’re doing a play today in New York, you can’t help but find out if it was positive or negative.

Did you discuss the character at all with Jimmi Simpson? Compare notes?

A little bit. We have a good relationship. I said, “Anything I can help you with, let me know.” He would email me some questions every once in a while, but I didn’t even know there was a younger me until I saw a guy walking around the trailers and said, “Who’s he?” “That’s you.” “Oh. Really? Thanks for telling me.” I think Jimmi does a great job establishing the whole history of this guy.

What did Sela Ward and Katja Herbers bring to “Vanishing Point” that made the episode different?

It’s nice to be out of the Man in Black suit and just be William, the family man, however poor he is at it. Sela was brand-new to the whole situation, so you just try to make somebody like that as comfortable as possible. Work with them. Have them welcome. Get rid of whatever nerves they have. Katja is great. She’s not afraid to ask me things, acting questions. I love talking about it. If she has something that’s bugging her or is stuck in something, we can discuss it.

The episode is about obsession, especially the kind that can blind us from what really matters. Have you ever been obsessed?

I was definitely obsessed with Pollock in the ‘90s, but it was a good obsession. I wasn’t blinded by anything. Let’s see. I like to get into things. I like to do things well. I can get pretty easily obsessed with something I care about, but not necessarily blindly.

Do you have any character or story input on Westworld?

Hmm, we probably had some discussions. Never any major points of disagreements. I did say in one public forum, “I don’t want to be in a samurai suit and I don’t want to be naked.” There are two things I suggested.

How do you pick parts at this point in your career? What’s important to you?

What’s important to me at the moment, which I will know in the next few days, is if I can get financing for this film I want to direct in August or September. It’s a Montana novel called The Ploughman — Robert Duvall, Garrett Hedlund, my wife Amy [Madigan], my daughter [Lily Dolores Harris]. I wrote the screenplay and I’ve been fighting to get the money I need. If I don’t, we won’t be able to make it for a while.

Why is that so important?

Well, I’ve only directed two movies and I haven’t directed in ten years. I really love doing it, and this is a novel that I think could make a really cool movie. I adapted it a couple years and I’ve been trying to do it for the last three years. I really, really, really want to do it.

It sounds like a big, challenging project. When you’ve accomplished so much, are you still looking for things that challenge you?

Yeah, definitely. I just did this play in New York, Good for Otto, the new David Rabe play with my wife Amy. And it was definitely a challenge. A 14-character play. Every night, you’re out there and you’re trying to make it work. I still really enjoy what I do. The acting part of it is more fulfilling in theater than in film work, in a certain way. One of the things I love about directing is you’re constantly focused. You’re constantly occupied. For instance, in Westworld, I’m on set two days a week, and then I may not work for two weeks. I may not know I’m not working for two weeks because they don’t know yet. You’re on set for 12 hours and on camera for ten minutes. It gets a little bit old after a while. You try to keep a good attitude.

Would you consider directing an episode of Westworld?

Jon [Nolan] and Lisa mentioned it to me a while back, but I don’t think I’d be a good director for Westworld because I have a hard time understanding it. [Laughs.] I’m as confused as anybody else watching this thing. I don’t always know what’s going on.

Do you watch your past work? If The Rock is on cable, do you watch it?

If I’m flipping and I happen to see it, I might watch it for a little while. Just for fun. I won’t hunt it out to see something that I did.

What’s your airport question? What do people recognize you for and what do they ask you when they do?

It’s a wide variety. Sometimes people come up and say something like, “Milk Money is my favorite movie.” “All right, I’m glad you enjoyed it.” [Laughs.] A lot of guys go “The Rock! The Rock!” Or I’ll hear, “I really liked you in The Hours.” “Pollock is my favorite movie.” Now Westworld. More people have probably seen that than all the films I’ve ever made. It’s a little bit strange, but it’s alright. You get used to it. I kind of skulk around. I don’t ask to be recognized. I’m always wearing a hat and glasses. I don’t mind if people are polite about it.

You’ve been acting for 40 years. How do you think film and television have changed?

You’ve got, what, 500 scripted shows? I was talking to Amy the other day, and we get all these Emmy screeners in the mail, how could anybody possibly watch all of this stuff? They should have categories. Emmys for HBO. Emmys for network. Emmys for Hulu. That’s the main thing that’s changed — the amount of stuff being put out there is amazing. And in film, it’s all tentpole business. You go to a ten-movie theater and eight of ‘em cost $200 million to make. It’s very different.

So, how do you find what’s good through all the clutter?

There are a lot of good things. I was watching Atlanta last night and I just think the originality of that show is beautiful. You never know what’s gonna happen week to week. It’s so quirky and fun. It’s cool. That’s one of the good things. There are a lot of really good things written, produced, and directed that would never be done in film.

Do you think TV is at a more creative point in its history than film?

You know, there are so many independent films being made that you don’t even know about, I can’t really say. I think there’s a lot of wonderful, creative work being done. I go out the Sundance Film Lab every June if I’m not working. They’re very creative. They’re wonderful.

What’s next? Hopefully the Montana film, right?

If it doesn’t happen, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll keep working outside in my yard.

Is that what you like to do?

Yeah, I got some acreage. That’s what I like. Be outside. Close my mind.

[okietrish]

Second Sun: pt. 1~ Greta Van Fleet

Hey guys! This is my first time writing anything like this. I’m a massive fan of Greta and have been pissed to find that there is no fan fiction anywhere!!!! So I took matters into my own hands. Feed back would be wonderful. I’ll take requests, all that Jazz, whatever y’all want I’m willing to give it a shot. Alright. Y’all enjoy this first part.

PLEASE GIVE FEEDBACK

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your mind isn’t a place that comes without chaos. It’s cloudy at times and riddled with worrisome thoughts and essentric dreams that spiral you into realizing that you’re not conventional in the least. This isn’t a new realization by any means, its obvious to you that your brain doesn’t function habitually. When you were younger you didn’t find yourself speaking your mind all that much due to anxiety, but you craved being heard, being noticed, being a person... that’s where writing came into play. It started off with poems, ridiculous journals that are so ‘edgy’ from when you were 12. It actually was “just a faze,” thank god, which made your mother happy...

Gradually through time and experience and aggressively going through far too many notebooks, your writing got far better, more natural for you, which lead to the true love of your life, music.

Music is constantly playing through your head, evident right now as you’re standing in line at Spill’n The Beans, hands down the best coffee shop due to the name alone. The people surrounding you look on curiously, unbeknownst to you, as you perform a detailed toe tapping/air drumming combo to the beat of You Shook Me by Zeppelin. The coffee shop wasn’t crowded this morning. Quiet, secluded, enough space around you to allow all of the thoughts and ideas to flow easily without the stress of other people to suffocate your mind. When you approach the front of the line you take your head phones out and get greeted by the warm, nostalgic smile of your best friend.

“Y/N, I’ve never been so happy to see your sexy self”

“My god Syd I saw you at home 40 minutes ago, miss me already?” You laughed at her look of betrayal knowing you’re in for a dramatic performance.

“Y/N Y/L/N I barely see you anymore and we live together. It’s all music now a days!” Her arms are on her hips now, mothering you like always. She complains of it, but you know deep down she loves to look after you.

You looked behind you making sure no one was in line waiting as she continued in a voice that was suppose to mock your own.

“‘Sorry love I have to practice bass.’ ’sorry Syd I have this tune stuck in my head and I need to go write’ ‘sorry Syd I’m just too fucking rock and roll to hang out with you and binge watch Harry Styles compilations anymore!’”

You looked at her for a moment, a smirk rising to your lips as your snorted a bit at your chaotic friend.

“Are you done?” You asked laughing.

“Yes, but I do miss you.” She said as she began making the same ice coffee combo you get every morning on your way to work, black cold brew with one pump of vanilla. A bitter sweet combo to kickstart your mind.

“I miss you too.” You spoke over the coffee machine. You did feel bad about not spending as much time with her as you wanted to.

“I get off tonight at 6, wanna have a movie night?” You offered.

Syd poked her head above the machine, her eyes crinkled, evident that she was grinning ear to ear.

“Nah I’m good.” She said smugly and ducked back down. If you rolled your eyes any harder they would be stuck.

“Got fuck your self, pick up snacks on your way home, I’ll grab McDonald’s. Lets have a date.” She handed you your coffee with a smile.

“Sounds like a plan. See you later sis.” She flipped you off as you walked out. It was a routine, a sign of love and endeaarance put into place god only knows how long ago.

Your drive to work was nothing abnormal. Songs shuffled and inspiration flew through your veins. Today you felt good. Hopefully it stayed like that, you thought.

You pulled up to Jackknife Records at 8:20am, 10 minutes early for your shift, per usual. Grabbing all of your belongings out of your car you made your way inside, immediately being greeted by your boss and owner of the store Rob.

“Morning Y/N!” His lanky arm waved happily towards you.

“Rob, my man, any cool drop offs last night?” You say making your way behind the counter to set down your stuff.

“There’s an old beat up Beatles White Album back there. She looks like she was used and loved, it’s still in great condition. It’s on my desk waiting for you.”

You always had this routine with Rob. If anyone dropped off some cool vinyls, or any odd ball things he thought you would enjoy he saved them for you in his office. You never asked him to, he just noticed you always bought records from the store so he quickly developed an idea for your taste. Which wasn’t really anything specific, if it had a good vibe you loved it. Good music is good music no genre or decade could put a box around it.

“You’re the best!”

You began your usual routine as Rob opened up the store. Stacking records, scanning and placing tags, the mundane things that brought the record store to life.

It was a slow day, seeing as it was Saturday morning and everyone was likely hungover from the night before. Days like this are your favorite, though you do enjoy busy days where you get to help people figure out their taste and what they want, or need, in their life musically, but days like this meant that you could listen to music and write.

Rob knew you got your work done through and through, so he was never bothered by you writing on the job or playing music for everyone to hear, occasionally even bringing your bass to work and playing in the corner. He knew you were a good worker and if anyone came in you’d take care of them. This place was like your home, had been for 2 years now since Rob offered you a job. He is an old family friend, went to high school with your dad way back in the day. So when you moved out to LA for school you dad made a phone call to Rob and he took you under his wing.

You helped out a few customers here and there, tidied up some more, but mostly all you did was listen to different music and sing along.

It was around noon now, so you began stocking some cd’s while Rob was behind the counter. Occasionally Rob would throw in a request here and there and take the store’s music into his own hands, which is why Whose Loving You by The Jackson 5 began playing over the speakers.

“Rob what the hell?” You laughed at him. You knew he put this on knowing it’s your go-to karaoke song. He does it at least once a week.

“Oh hush, no one is in here. Sing your heart out kiddo.” He joking dismissed you with his hand. You laughed at his ‘dad’ antics.

You continued stocking cd’s when your voice came in perfectly, the first run was second nature at this point.

“When I had you” you were being dramatic now, hand movements, extra ear plugging motions pretending like you were Christina Aguilera to be funny. Rob was laughing to himself as he walked into the back room. You continued, not even realizing he left.

“I treated you bad

And wrong, my dear

And girl since

Since you went away”

You were back to stocking CD’s when the hook came around, singing effortlessly, but eloquently.

“Don't you know I

Sit around

With my head hangin' down

And I wonder

Who's lovin' you”

You sang through the song, not even thinking about the notes at this point. This song was constantly on loop in your brain since your dad showed it too you some 15 years ago. You were within yourself in those moments. Oblivious to all around you other than your voice, the song, and the robotic motions of CD’s organization. The bell ringing on the front door didn’t register to you as you went about singing. It wasn’t until the song ended and another one came on that you didn’t recognize that you looked up and noticed four guys, around your age, looking at you curiously. They were still standing by the front door, seemingly frozen in their place as they looked on completely infatuated with the sight in front of them. You. The tall one with long brown hair down to his collar bones with a jean shirt on began clapping for you, thoroughly impressed. You became flustered immediately going into apologetic mode, per usual.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry! I didn’t even hear you come in.” You paused looking at them expectantly for you don’t know what, but they just continued looking at you, smiling.

You began again,

“Sorry umm... feel free to look around. Sorry for singing so loud... let me know if you have any questions.”

You walked back to behind the counter to switch the music again. You hooked up your phone and just pressed shuffle, trying to find something catchy, but mostly something to smooth out your nerves at the moment.

You felt a presence in front of you, looking up you discovered it was the guy who clapped before, his friends scattered about the store.

“Hey! Your voice is sick. Sorry we interrupted your personal concert.” His fingers were tapping on the counter as he looked at you. It seemed more like a habit to him, not necessarily a motion of impatience or anything like that. He was kind, immediately you picked up on that, his smile was endearing.

“Oh thanks! And don’t worry about it, I was just bored.” You smiled back. This seemed to guide him into the conversation.

“Cool store by the way. You seem to have a pretty legit collection. My brother’s, my friend and I were just walking past and just had to come in. The music guided us, ya know?”

You laughed a bit at his relaxed nature, seemingly mirroring your own. You haven’t met many people like that.

“I feel that, music can guide you anywhere. Most of the time it’s where you need to go most.” You said as matter of fact.

He put his hand up for a high five, which you granted, “Hell yeah. I’m Sam by the way.”

He stuck his hand out towards you again, this time for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you Sam, I’m Y/N.” You chuckled as you shook his hand. He turned towards the other guys and released your hand.

“Hey, losers, come here really quick.”

He turned back to you and smiled before turned to the guys again. He stepped to the side so they could see you.

“This right here is Y/N she is dope, so far, and has a sick voice and clearly good music taste because look at that Bo Diddley shirt. I need that shit. I mean... Come on! We’re best friends now.” He smiled at you with a cheesy look.

They boys and you laughed at Sam’s antics, it was obvious that they were beyond use to the ridiculousness of Sam’s personality by now.

You quickly said, “Hey!” to all of them and they introduced themselves to you.

The tall one, about Sam’s height, walked up to you first. He was wearing a t-shirt with a very delicate floral design on it partnered with black shorts that hit just above his knee. His Birkenstock’s were well worn it, but in decent shape. He looked relaxed and childish in a way, a trusting face. Someone you could tell everything to, very trusting.

“Hey Y/N, I’m Danny. Nice to meet you! Love the shirt.” His smile was contagious. A kind soul. You smiled, your mouth opening to reply before someone spoke up.

“Your outfit in total is just suburb. The shirt, the high waisted shorts, the Birkenstock’s. Fantastic. I’m Josh by the way.” You were overwhelmed but not frightened in the least by his quick words. He seemed friendly as well, he spoke with his hands, twisting them, retailing every syllable with a flick of a finger. Very unique. That uniqueness ran through to his outfit. Short red shorts, a black flowing shirt decorated with layered necklaces with different details on each.

You smiled in your reply, “you’re very kind, also where the hell did you get your shoes, I love them.” They were small, black Toms looking shoes.

Josh smiles at you sweetly, even more in tuned with the conversation, which you didn’t think was possible, “Well you see, they are 100% recycled material. You can wash them and they have a lifetime warranty. I can give you the website, love them!” All the boys seemed to laugh at Josh’s enthusiasm.

The unnamed one speaking up, “Oh please don’t get him started on those damn shoes!” He laughed while stroking his bottom lip with his right thumb and pointer finger. “I’m Jake by the way. Lovely to meet you.”

Jake was intriguing to you. He carried himself differently than the other boys, as far as you could tell. Still kind and light hearted, more monotoned. He work black skinny jeans, brown boots and a grey t-shirt topped with a brown floppy hat.

You smiled at all of the boys.

“You guys seems cool. What brings you down here?” You move so you’re sitting on the counter, having a feeling you will be talking for a while.

Josh spoke up first, “We’re recording some songs at the moment, trying to get to an album, but we got stuck. So we decided to get some inspiration out here.”

The way he spoke was captivating, confident in a way that captured everyone’s attention. You were fascinated.

“LA is inspirational if you allow it to be. Are you guys all in a band?”

They all nodded their heads yes.

“Alright who does what? Wait can I guess?!” You we’re excited.

“Hell yeah go for it.” Sam said. They all stood in a line, it looked as if they were in a police line up, you giggled but stared at them intently.

“Alright... Danny, you’re the drummer.”

“Fuck you’re good!” Danny said laughing and stepping out of line walking over to you giving you a high five.

“It’s the arms my man, dead give away.” You smiled at him and continued. “Sam... singer? No. No. No. guitar?” You questioned. Crossing your arms, looking far to serious for this situation.

“Ha! No! I’m bass and keys baby!” He then played air piano aggressively and walked over to stand with Danny.

You laughed and continued.

“Josh, you’re obviously the singer.” You said with false confidence.

“Woah!” Josh was shocked. “What’s so obvious about it!?”

“My friend, you annunciate your words eloquently, so it was a good guess.” You said smiling at the curly haired man.

“Touché Y/N. Touché.” He walked towards the other boys while staring you down jokingly.

You hopped off the counter walking towards Jake. Jokingly inspecting him you walked around him pretending to judge him harshly.

“Hmmmm... Jake Jake Jake.” You stopped standing in front of him, looking up into his eyes. You were taken aback a bit by his steady glare, a smirk appeared on his face.

“You, darling, are a guitar player.”

He smiled at you, “oh yeah?”

You walked away jokingly confident, “yes of course, your hands are calloused to all hell.”

Sam jumped towards you throwing his arm around you, “Damn Y/N 3/4 ain’t bad at all!”

They all laughed along. You realized you knew what they all played, but no idea what band they were in.

“Wait, what’s the name of the band. Maybe I have heard of you!” You looked at Sam expectingly.

“Greta Van Fleet.” He said nodding his head down firmly, seemingly proud.

“What kind of music do y’all play?”

“Give me your phone I’ll show you!”

You grabbed your phone, unlocking it and handing it to Sam. He immediately opened Spotify. While Sam was looking them up Josh looked like he got an idea.

“Y/N you should come by tonight! We’re having a bonfire, it’ll be fun!”

You go to reply but the sound of a guitar blaring through the speakers interrupts your train of thought. You’re instantly taken aback by the music. Immediately feeling your body bounce with the beat, you begin to press your fingers on your right hand to your thumb. An anxiety coping mechanism that centers your focus onto one thing. It’s a habit of yours.

The boys look at you curiously again, but you don’t notice.

Jake smiled and explained, “This is Black Smoke Rising.”

You agknowledge him with a smile and a head nod. Far too into the music to reply. This always happens to you, your ear for music goes beyond the lyrics and main instruments. You’re a song writer through and through, you connect with songs in a euphoric way, and uncontrollable reaction.

The song comes to an end. The boys look at you, waiting for your response. You stared at all of them, taking your time looking at each and every one of them for a moment.

“Guys, that was absolutely sick. That’s just... Sam give me my phone.”

He immediately handed it over to you.

You quickly save their music to your library and follow the band.

“We have a new fan!” Josh says with a smile as wide as his face. He continues, “so will you come tonight? Please?” He batts his eyes at you pleading.

You hesitate, “I would love to, but I have plans with my best friend Syd tonight. I can’t bail.”

All the boys looked at you, evidently bummed by your answer. Jake is the one who spoke up.

“See if she wants to come! If not, that’s fine. Here, put your number in my phone. I’ll text you the details.” He handed you his phone. As you typed in your number you said hopefully,

“Perfect! I’ll see what I can do!” You smile at all of them, Jake opened his mouth to say something when the front door bell rang followed by a group of teenagers coming in the store. You looked over seeing that the group was looking a little lost.

“Well boys, it was lovely to meet you, but I do have to get some work done. I get off at 6 tonight, so I’ll let you know if I can make it!”

The guys looked at you with big smiles filled with excitement.

“Wonderful!” Sam said clapping his hands together. “Just let us know!” He smiles and have me a side hug before walking towards to door. Josh said goodbye to me next with a hug and an excited clap of his hands, leaving with a wink causing you to laugh. Danny walked over to you and gave you a sweet side hug, “Hope you can make it tonight Y/N!” He waved to you while he walked away.

You smiled and waved as he walked out the door, chasing after the other boys who were out of the store by now. Your eyes fell to Jake who looked at you with an amused face.

“What?” You looked at him and giggled.

“You’re just...” He shook his head and smiled at the ground before continuing, “I hope you come tonight Y/N.” He took a step towards you and stopped, shuffling his feet, debating something, before walking towards the door. He stopped and looked back at you, “I’ll text you, alright?” You nodded your head towards him and waved goodbye before he walked out the door.

You went back to work, helping the other customers in the store before finishing your cd stocking. Rob came back out from his office and sent you on your much needed lunch break.

You made your way to the back room with your lunch box in hand, a nervous smile spreading on your lips while you pulled out your phone quickly typing in Syd’s contact to shoot her a text.

Y/N: Soooooo... How do you feel about going to a bonfire tonight instead a movie night🤗

Syd: Y/N. I don’t like people. You know this.

Y/N: Yes, but I will still buy you McDonalds, and there will be cute boys👏🏻

Syd: I mean... you had me with the nuggets, but boys help. You owe me. 🖕🏻

Y/N: 🖕🏻❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~~

THANK YOU FOR READING!

SHOOT ME SOME FEEDBACK LOVES!

-Trish

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hi Babes! This chapter, well, she gave me trouble, but she’s written and we have progress! All my love to @dirtystyles and @bleedinglove4h! Long Live Tripod Writing!!

Chapter 5-Kekkou Desu

"No." 

Harry watched all of the color go out of Ada's face. His arm had been far from her realaxed shoulders. They were so high at the moment, he was nearly cupping one. But not in a good way, or with any comfort. Where a minute ago she had been open and easy, she had tightened up all over, gates slammed down, moats redug and walls reinforced. Everything was tense, the moment especially.

Harry had wandered into a trigger field, and his request had pressed a button he didn't know existed. Fuck, he felt like he'd just puked on her shoes again. This time without any of his usual clumsiness. She could sing, he'd heard her. Though that wasn't a requirement for this crowd, or the activity. Multiple people who had zero business had been up to sing, sometimes in a language they didn't know. Ada was clearly not going to sing, and it looked like she may walk right out on him and the rest of the night because he suggested she get on stage. The dance they had been doing was back to square one. He needed to say something, he usually cackled when he got this uncomfortable, or told a terrible joke, stunk up the air to clear the awkward fumes. Neither seemed the course of action here. "Ok," he cupped her risen shoulder lightly, ran his thumb over the knot he felt when she tightened and looked at her until she acknowledged him. It took several seconds, they felt biblical in length. Ada blew out a breath and lifted her wide eyes to him. He could still see tension at the corners, but she gave them to him. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Not with me. Just have fun. I, however, allowed myself to be browbeaten into singing, again. Will you be here when I finish?" Would she be?  There was a big part of her, huge, that wanted to fuck off to her hotel room and forget this night ever happened. She really had thought she was over the singing thing. It was a childhood and adolescent wound, deep, but she had therapy, talked it to death, til she thought her trauma had covered its ears and cowered. It was upsetting to find out how deep that bruise still lived.  She'd have to go see Dr. Shiny when she got home. Two months, would she even remember it had made her tense like that? Harry seemed like he remembered, though he was doing a good job of downplaying her freak out. Harry'd done nothing wrong, and his request wasn't that out of the ordinary considering the venue. Lots of the cast or crew had sang, Ayae was currently doing Material Girl. The band plodding behind her ah, ahs! She sounded so awful Ada was charmed. There was no reason to leave, this was a good time, and she was happy to be there, even post awkward over reaction, with him. Plus, She wanted to see him sing again. The last time had been a game changer. Ada was sure anything after Nirvana would be underwhelming.

The choice though, made her curious.

She wondered what he would chose next time. His album and band t shirts suggested good taste. She loved his mix, one day Bowie the next day Britney. She would stay. To satisfy her curiosity. Her head was nodding like a happy horse, she liked her decision, but imagined she should slow down the drinks that were basically straight vodka. Even if it would help her forget her. freak out "I'll be here. Sorry, I don't really want to.." She flashed her hands in a rolling motion hoping he would understand, she wanted to stay but not explain, She hoped he didn’t press.  Ada did not want to shot him down again. Especially since he had been so gracious. His grace shown again. "Don't, it's ok, you can tell me another time, if you feel up to it. Let me go see what Kunichi has cooked up for me . I have my own ideas, something simple." The last part he muttered to himself and she felt a little smile cross her lips at him walking off. His gait somehow like a baby giraffe before it gained confidence and became cocksure and hip full. Her head snapped to the side at that. Her eyes bugged at the next move. Harry was looking down at first, but then he swooped his hair off his forehead with a little shake and pushed it back, the long curls he’d kept on top. It was an innocuous move, but suddenly he took up more space in the room than before, than his physicality required. Though he was bigger than most people in the room, in the country. He caught her watching him when she made it to the stage. Her smile transformed into a very attractive attempt to catch flies once she watched Harry make a bemused face, say something to one of the other guys on stage that started conversation, then wink at her. Her anticipation ramped up a moment later when he looked at Kunichi like he might be a genius and kissed his forehead noisily then nodded with a 40 million pound smile. Whatever Kunichi had on the stove for him seemed to be amusing all of them, and she swore that his friend had looked at her, directly, which felt almost rude in Japan, since they were simply tangentially connected strangers.Very direct and she wasn’t on stage and nobody had caught Harry or Kunichi’s look, but she felt in the spotlight. Nerves all over. Ada was at a loss, but excited, all her hair was standing on end, and she was almost irritated she'd have to shave again so soon. Though why she had shaved when she wore jeans was curious, but she would ponder that when she was ready to consider implications, like in 3 years. A synapse fired and a memory started to materialize a moment later when a simple guitar cord was struck, and Harry swiveled his hips from one side to the other in a familiar but uncharacteristic manner. At once jerky and sinuous. Who did that remind her of? All her questions were answered when the old school train like riff entered and the drum was a dull thud instead of a crash. A few screams went up and Ada wondered if she was actually at the Ed Sullivan show. His hair was wrong, much to light, and he was a tad prettier, more feminine than the man he was channeling. But someone should tell that to his voice, and his hips, and her heart. Before Kurt in her heart, right next to James Brown was Elvis Presley. And her Babe Ruth was knocking a cover out of the park. This night was ridiculous, for a man who had fallen so short of her expectations for a month, he was blowing her mind tonight. Elvis, was he fucking kidding her?

And she'd always loved this song. Not her favorite, but a classic. She was all shook up too. The first time she had heard it, she was probably 8 and she'd told her dad the lyrics were stupid and simple. Her dad had scoffed but her mom had just worn a knowing smile. They were, until you felt those feelings, weak knees, and tied tongues. Music played in her house a lot and her mom got on kicks- it was during one of those dance it out phases, when she heard Elvis with new ears. Things had gone to hell at home, her dad had moved out ages ago, but it felt like a new ending that day. Her mom had been served papers, which meant dad had somebody he was his version of serious about. So her heart was tender, but she was pushing it down to buoy her mom’s fake cheer.. To top it all off, Peter Harris had made out with her and she was definitely all shook up. All mixed up. It was exactly how she felt her mom had been right. 13 year old Ada was not in love, though that was equally inexpressible, but definitely infatuated and her was body running amok. Her head thinking about Peter’s lips and her heart aching over her dad’s refreshed abandonment. It was confusing. The worst part about that feeling, those feelings were they didn't shut down when Pete told everybody that black girl's nipples were too dark and that she didn't know how to kiss. It was her third one, how was she supposed to know what to do? There wasn’t a class at the civic center on kissing.

But she always liked the song, even if she had weird memories to it. She had lots of memories to Elvis.

And tonight was a new one with Harry Presley. Her star was a sight. His clothes did not say Elvis. But his looks said performer in the throes. His hair was wild, it hadn’t been tidy, not scene ready, since she arrived by any stretch. The dishevelment now was on another level. Because he had one hair curling into his vision. It hung like a vine and she seriously wanted to George of the Jungle on it. Then she'd be in his vision, like he'd captured hers tonight. He had tried to blow it off after one set of Yeah Yas, and it had come right back over. He’d eyeballed it, and if looks couldn’t kill, they at least amused. Ada liked this frustrated look. It made her laugh. Theoretically, he should wear something like it while they were working, but this one was more bemused than defeated. He’d flip his head back like he was saying what’s up to somebody and the hair would give Harry a moment’s reprieve, before it was right back in his eye line. Eventually, when he couldn't make the hair wither with scorching looks, he left it. “Guess my hair has decided we need to look the part!” And there was some clapping, Jeff whistled. She sighed. It was perfect for the moment. The right thing to say in the moment. She nodded and he caught her eye and smirked before a body roll up on some mmm, mms.

Damn him. Her body was mirroring the lyrics, her heart beat a little faster. Her pulse throbbed appropriately. This was magic. It needed to make it into the movie. “Holy shit!” She was seriously wondering if she could add a scene with him dressed as Elvis. God, would he be willing to sing in a movie? Like a proper early superstar? He couldn't dance, so he wasn't a triple threat to anything but her cool.  He should sing in a movie. Their movie. She whipped out her phone and started planning. The schedule was packed. Ada wasn't even sure they had time.  She could make some, she knew.  It would be worth going over budget, especially if she could get him performing like he was tonight. This wasn't a performance, properly.  But it felt once in a lifetime. Jeff had once called him a clutch man. It was probably why he wanted to be more than just brother's from another mother with him. Harry loves to be praised. "When things start to fall apart, in an interview, or on stage, or if someone just says something that is awkward and off putting, you just have a way of changing subject, or charming the hell out of them." Harry figured Jeff found this to be a great asset for a client with ambitions like Harry. Maybe why he wanted to be more than brothers himself. Being able to roll with it, duck and dive, was useful in their business. Harry wasn't even aware of how big his ambitions were until someone handed him the moon and he suddenly wanted the stars. That first two years in the band were bewildering, but once he decided he wanted more, he started planning how. And being a good guy in a pinch had got him the manager. So, Harry was usually the clutch man. He came through. Not 100%. His batting average wasn't perfect.  If his nerves were up, things went one of two ways, he knocked the ball to the rafters, or he whiffed hard at air, even when the ball was crap. He had been doing a lot of whiffing, in clutch moments with this movie. He thought he had come through enough to not be absolute rubbish, but his ability to slide into home while everybody was watching kept alluding him, like why anybody played a boring sport like baseball let alone watched it mystified him. It felt different today, tonight. For tonight, was nothing, if not a performance.  Though he wasn't sure what was riding on it beyond his heart. But he felt like he was knocking it of the park right now. From the smile on Ada's face, it was a grand slam. She had been watching him since he caught her when she fell. He'd felt it when he walked away from her. Those big brown eyes on him. It was a change, he wasn’t exactly relaxed, but he was relieved. The secret, like Jeff said or course, was to "act good." Was that it? Which was the chicken and which was the egg? Did he act good, so she softened, or did she soften so he could act good? Harry was likely to think it was not him. She had been soft with him today on set, when she did that, was kind and quiet and direct, he performed. Hmmmmmm. It was her, she was soft pitching him today and tonight. Definitely tonight, soft beautiful eyes too. And it was making him hard. Which was unfortunate because he was on stage and the performance required him to draw a lot of attention to his pelvis.  He needed to think about the moves. Kinda, they were written on his hip flexors. He's done it a lot. When he was little he spent a lot of time, pre YouTube, he congratulated himself, watching his icons perform. It's why his Jagger impression didn't require to much work on SNL, and he was able to lay it on thick on stage with Niall. He’d been doing it for years, along with Freddie Mercury and Elton John.  Strangely after all the comparisons, not Bowie. Not David, but definitely Elvis! He'd been mimicking Elvis since his mom played him in the kitchen when she danced off bad days. She'd mimic the moves and Harry would copy her. He was about three. He reckoned when his mom found video of Elvis performing for him to watch. And then he had his own little Elvis impersonating ring, which got a surprising amount of business for a village the size of Holmes Chapel. He had at least 3 gigs. So he could do the gyrating thing in his sleep. People focused on his hips a lot, looking for that ever elusive bulge shot, he was happy tonight was a friendly get together and nobody was filming him. Well, Kunichi was, but chest up. He hammed it up when his hair grew a mind of its own and hoped that deflected pelvic attentions. It made him go down at least. He took several deep breaths and got ready for the crescendo of the song. He vocalized along, popped his lips and hips once more, and grinned, scanning the clapping hands. He'd been more focused with the eye contact that he usually was, a small familiar crowd. Ada. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him, until a lighbulb seemed to go off above her head and she’d been on her phone. She was looking down now and he wanted her attention back. He’d have to go get it. He shook himself of the persona and jumped down, taking a couple hugs on his way off stage. Hugs, from Japanese people, they were drunk. Well, that was good, worse video quality when these videos made their way to the internet and a delay without him asking for it. Bless hangovers. Harry was making his way back to Ada. He had a clear view of the table, pathway too, almost like it had been cleared. The light even seemed to illuminate the ground ahead of him. It felt like a movie moment. Her focus on him and the two fresh drinks in front of her. What a set up. The sense of inevitability he had had since he met her matched the moment and her eyes. He still saw green fields when he first looked at her on set each day, but sometimes, they were amber and dry by nightfall. Mostly because Ada did not seem to share the portent. He felt like he was destined to love her, and she didn't seem bothered by him at all. Well in the English way, she seemed plenty bothered by him in the American sense. Irritated. Not tonight, a flip had switched and all that karma for being the single minded devotion of so many when you felt not the same at all, literally didn't know they were alive, he thought had come back to bite him. He wasn't sure he believed in cosmic payback, but he knew sometimes his careless heart hurt those he cared for too. He'd sat up late one night looking at Instagram wondering if maybe he'd earned her indifference. Not directly, but because he couldn’t possibly adequately return or take all the love showered upon him. So, he’d somehow lost his claim to the love he wanted. Her indifference hurt. Some days indifference was a wish. Better than when he was afraid she disliked him. "Wow! Harry Presley! You just gave me a whole new idea for a scene!" She may not be on the same page as him, waiting for more, but she wasn’t indifferent and her grabbing his hand made him sure she didn’t hate him.  A new scene sounded exciting. And then she talked shop for an hour. It was a pleasure, felt like when somebody had a riff and he had a lyric and they fit, or vice versa. Except this time he was the instrument.  And he loved the way she played him. "So, there is already the rockabilly tradition and the karaoke tradition!" Her eyes sparkled, like really, it wasn't even the light or the make up. She wore little- her skin was just that good. Shit, pay attention. "So what if, they have a fight, like we already have planned, and to make it up to him, Henry arranges to meet Akio somewhere, more public than it should be, and he's dressed like Akio’s day dream." She paused there slightly more pensively, like her mind was already onto the next question while she posed this one to him. “And sings him an Elvis song!" He was dumbfounded, he liked it, movie magic. Licensing would be a bitch, though. She was staring. Oh, he’d wandered. He looked spacey when he was thinking. He wished he looked more like she did when pondering. "You will won't you, sing for the film?" She'd taken his hand. He's do anything then, but. "Yeah, of course”, he was already giving his truth and possible credibility. He'd sing, it bugged him the way singer‘s who acted got waved off. The other way was praised. And even Elvis’' cheesiest movies were entertaining and had great songs. She took her hands and clapped. She was a tough cookie, but she was currently fluffier than the slime he'd made with Arlo. So excited. "What song should he sing?" She eyed him, "all shook up?" "No," he pulled his lip while he thought, "it's not deep enough. Not a sorry.”

“Well, ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ could be cute, but still not a sorry, ‘Don't’ Be Cruel’ is a good one, but a little too inverted for the situation, ‘Return to Sender’?” He shook his head while he mentally ticked through the catalog. Ada's bit her lip and her brow curled and she looked at the table top. Suddenly, her large eyes were saucers, "Can't Help Falling In Love!" "No!" He almost yelled it. He didn't mean to react like that. But absolutely not. He couldn’t sing that song for this. "Oooookay," she side eyed him, but extended him the same grace he had to her. But he could see she would press later, had noticed she got curious. "That's probably a good call anyway, with Crazy Rich Asians and all." She let him off the sharing hook.

She tapped her lip. "’The Wonder Of You’? ‘She's Not You’? ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?" She was muttering, mentally scanning through hits. But she’d missed the perfect one. He almost wondered if she was letting him come up with it to boost his confidence. He shared it anyway. "Love Me Tender." Harry said with finality and Ada slapped the table. “That's perfect!" She clinked her glass to his, a dollop splashing out, and took a swig. "Now we just have to find the time to film an unplanned scene. When we are behind." She looked at him.  level and more sober than her momentary spill had suggested. "So I need you to do better Harry. Like today, but everyday.  If you could bring whatever sauce you are on to set for the rest of the film. I think this scene may be one of those ones that people remember, like Molly Ringwald and Jake Ryan sitting on the table kissing over the cake?" "I love that scene!" Harry enthused. "Everybody loves that scene." Ada playfully rolled her eyes at him. "It's an iconic scene, so good we still talk about the movie despite the racism. It’s like you singing Elvis will be, without the terrible cultural illiteracy.” "I wish somebody hadn't already done the dirty dancing lift thing. Though I suppose I got the idea from the movie." The last bit he said to himself. "Wait? What? Like the Ryan gosling thing where he picked up Emma Stone in 'Crazy Stupid Love?' His move?" She was chuckling at him. He could feel the color in his cheeks- he might be the color of a ripe tomato. "Is it so cheesy?" He kinda knew it was, he could be a little cheesy. But most people liked cheese, it was the hardest part about eating vegan for him. "I mean, you could melt it on bread and call it dinner, but everybody likes grilled cheese. "Cheese toastie, “ he corrected. He liked the way she was biting her lip. "What?" "Does it work?" Her brows flashed, and she'd leaned into him closer.  "The move." Harry shrugged. He wasn't sure how to say the next bit without sounding like a total ass. "It's always worked for me, especially if the girl has seen the movie! What? Why are you laughing at me?" Ada took a full 30 seconds to get herself together. He thought he saw a tear at the corner of her eye. "Sorry, Sorry, it's just.. why do you have a move anyway, couldn't you just say 'I'm Harry Styles’' and get laid?" "It's really not that easy, and if it is I don’t want it!" He was a little offended, but he knew what she meant. Her mouth opened a little bit and he bit his tongue when she leaned in like she was gonna share a secret. He wasn't sure whose secret.   "You like the chase?" God her mouth was really close to his, and she tasted like vodka and verve. "Um," shit if he just licked his lips it might count as a kiss. "I like to earn it." He could feel how true that was, though he wasn't sure he could have articulated it before. Like learning an instrument, or winning an audition after a long process. He knew he could have most things he wanted, and he was a little insecure about why he got things, so he liked it when he knew, no shadows of doubt, that he earned them. He wanted to earn Ada, he thought he might have a shot now. Ada cocked her head to the side, pursed her lips and nodded. Then stood up and took her hand off his, "Well, then I’m gonna need a little less conversation and a little more action."  

He should have followed her out.

Her wink on the way out the door kept him rooted in the booth.

[caiuscassiuss]

Crossfaded (Skater Boy AU! NCT Jaemin)

g o  v e r.

Genre: angst 

WC: 4.2k

Warnings: swearing, recreational drug use, alcoholism, death, casual thievery, dreamies are bad influences???

Description: You could only watch as your best friend spiraled down a black hole of self-neglect.

   The pump heels you mother forced you in made you extremely uncomfortable.    They were shining black, of course; it matched with your chiffon black dress and black coat.    Everyone dressed up for the dead body on display.    Melancholic organ music reverberated throughout the whole funeral home, and the muffled sounds of sobbing and crying occasionally interrupted the silence. The fluorescent lights shone just a little too brightly, the flowers, a bit too sepia, and faces, a bit too blurry.    You looked to the right and saw your best friend. His face was not a blurry mess of features that mouthed impersonal condolences, instead, it was a stony mask you knew he put on for the sake of his mother. From afar, no one could identify his emotions, but you, so attuned to his feelings over the many years you’ve had with him, could easily see he was this close to breaking down.    How could he not? After all, the dead body on display everyone dressed up in black for was his brother.    You patted his back and rested your hand there for a moment, trying to offer some sort of lingering support he could grasp onto while alone. You pushed your body to the pews next to your parents, who were staring concernedly at Jaemin's parents.    “I can’t imagine what it feels like, to lose a son. Especially in such circumstances…” your mother murmured while your father wrapped an arm around her shoulders.    You frowned and looked at Jaemin, finally settled down on a pew. He was hunched over with his forearms resting on his thighs, head down in deep thought. A bastardized version of the Thinker by Rodin, for all the wrong reasons. Jaemin, nowadays, seemed to always be in deep thought after he witnessed his brother drowning in the lake he so loved. You could never hold a proper conversation with him because he always murmured half-hearted replies that indicated his mind wasn’t all there at the moment. In fact, most of your interactions consisted of him crying into your shoulder.    It to see your best friend and crush of years hurting so badly and you wished desperately to fix whatever ached. You loved him for his bright and happy personality and everything in between. The tears in Jaemin’s eyes and the fine trembles in his hands put a physical pain on your heart.    You desperately wished Jaemin would be alright because if he wasn’t, you couldn’t.

   “Y/N! Look, you gotta come over to my house right now!” Jaemin spoke excitedly.    You stared at your phone in disbelief. Was the voice on the call really Na Jaemin, the boy who has been mourning his brother for the past few months? You haven’t heard him this excited in… forever.    “Of course! I’ll be over in 10!” you laughed confusedly as you pulled on a denim jacket and some sneakers.    As soon as you near his house, you could see Jaemin waving to you in the driveway, his neon orange sweatshirt a beacon in the early morning light. His eye bags were still present, as was his sallow and gaunt skin, but the gleam in his eyes was a recent addition. It contrasted greatly to the rest of his appearance.    “Yeah? I’m here?” you painted as you walked up to Jaemin. Man, you were out of shape.    “Look at this!” Jaemin exclaimed and pulled out… a skateboard?    You stared dumbly at the object; did Jaemin really make you sprint to his house so you could see a skateboard? Was the sudden turn in his demeanor all because of this painted, little, manufactured object?    Before you could respond, he set it down and sped down the driveway. Jaemin performed a neat little trick with you watching; he flipped the skateboard underneath his feet and hopped back on in a matter of a few seconds. You applauded, like any good friend would, but didn’t really get it until you looked into his face.    Jaemin’s face was something you thought would only be in the photo albums of the past. Childlike innocence blossomed on the apples of his cheeks, the wide grin on his lips, and in the look in his eyes. He was truly happy, the miserable shadow of his brother’s demise no longer lingering over his head.    A wide grin split your face at this revelation as you watched Jaemin perform a multitude of tricks for your viewing pleasure in the rising sunlight.

   “Y/N, meet my friends Jeno and Haechan! Guys, this is my best friend since birth, y/n,” Jaemin smiled shyly at you in the hallway of your high school.    You had heard of them.    Jeno and Haechan were part of a group of sorts that were generally known as… bad news, to say the least. There wasn’t a passing day where you didn’t hear their names not mentioned. You’ve seen their names spray-painted onto the walls of the school, or on the lockers of west hall. You’ve seen them running in the hallways, laughing crazily, and you’ve seen them rolling their eyes at a teacher trying to discipline them; you’ve seen them do everything they were not supposed to do.    “Hi!” you greeted, trying to give them the benefit of doubt. You gripped the strap of your bookbag a bit tighter and tapped your foot nervously into the linoleum tile beneath you.    “Hey.” They simultaneously greeted you, vaguely uninterested expressions on their faces. The pair of them leaned upon the neutral grey lockers, postures, indolent, screaming “I don’t really care and why am I here?”. Jeno’s intense eyes scanned the hallways distractedly, while Haechan pulled out his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants, orange hair flopping this and that way.    “They’re my skating buddies,” Jaemin said as he turned his gaze towards you, “and I know you’ve heard… things about them, but they’re pretty chill, okay?” he pleaded with you. You were touched by his trust in you, but you could not shake off this foreboding feeling you had.    At the mention of “things”, Jeno and Haechan smirked at each other, obviously sharing some sort of inside joke. You observed the interaction dazedly.    “Well, we gotta go do something now. See ya Y/N!” Jaemin warmly said to you as his friends pushed off the lockers and went past you without acknowledgment.    “Bye,” you murmured as you watched them stroll away, their silhouettes highlighted by the blazing mid-day sun.

   The unanswered texts displayed on your phone seemed to take pleasure in your discomfort. That was silly, however, phones couldn’t feel things. They couldn’t comfort you, couldn’t laugh, couldn’t be vindictive. However, the way things were at the moment, you sort of wished you could body-swap with the piece of metal in your hands.    Jaemin hadn’t responded in weeks to your texts.    At first, it was just a casual blow off that you understood completely; he couldn’t spend all his time with you, after all. Jaemin needed the resources to heal, and even if you thought those resources were no-good miscreants, Jaemin seemed to be happier and less miserable. But then, his excuses became more frequent until it came to the point you hadn’t seen his visage in weeks.    You slowly walked through the courtyard of your school, leaves fluttering all around your body. You had just left your club meeting for the day, pathetically holding out for the chance Jaemin might want to go to the convenience store with you. Of course, luck decided to turn its attention somewhere else.    Your ears pick up muffled laughs from somewhere. It seemed to come from one of the hidden alcoves and you curiously wanted to find out what it was. You gripped your book bag tightly and crept forward and peeked over the corner to see what it was.    7 or so boys were occupying various positions of the alcove, some sitting on the floor or leaning on the wall. However, they were all obscured by the clouds of smoke that came out of the corner.    Suddenly the smell hit you hard and fast, invading your nostrils and creeping through your olfactory senses.    Weed.    You had never taken drugs or anything like that before, but the smell of weed quickly became familiar to you as it wafted out of the bathrooms or janitor’s closets. Like any typical high school, the halls of your school were infected by a drug problem; asking for drugs was as typical as asking a neighbor for a pencil or a piece of notebook paper. You never wanted to take drugs, even if they were cool and normalized because they had consequences that could overreach high school.    The smoke partly cleared and then you could see Mark, the athletic junior, smirking as he took a swig from a beer bottle. Haechan, his bright orange hair attracting your attention immediately, was snickering as he elbowed Mark with a blunt in his hand. If Mark and Haechan were there, that meant…    Jaemin’s stupid neon yellow Supreme beanie sat atop its owner’s mussed brown hair as he sat, crisscrossed, on the ground, skateboard lying next to him. That beanie was a gift from his cousin that you both laughed at, because: spending $40 dollars on a knit hat made in China? Utterly ridiculous. Jaemin seemed to wear it more and more nowadays, however, until it became his identifying mark. Something to fit into the skater culture, you guessed.    Your best friend snorted and lifted a joint up to his mouth, lit it, and exhaled the smoke. His eyes fluttered shut as the high surged up and seeped into his brain, while you were utterly horrified.

   Today was one of the rare days you convinced Jaemin to hang out with you and steal him away from the drugged up crew he ran with. You both were at the playground, kicking your legs back and forth on the swingset. His skateboard lay on the grass near the support for the set. The playground, even though you were high schoolers, had always been the place you two hung out the talk about school or life.    But today, your normal comfortable atmosphere was replaced with something tense and awkward. The only sounds heard was a squeak of the metals chains moving and the occasional bird call.    You looked over at Jaemin, who was looking off into the distance. His face was bit gaunt, but not as bad as during the time his brother had just died, but thin enough to make a difference, especially to you. The ring on his finger glittered in the afternoon sun.        You frowned and looked closer. You had never seen him wearing a ring, recalling that he hated jewelry on his hands and fingers because they were too bothersome. It was a fairly expensive looking ring and you remembered it on display at the local mall. But wait: Jaemin’s family couldn’t afford such expensive things after just having a funeral, which you knew had taken a pretty penny out of their bank accounts. And he had just been to the mall a few days ago…    “Hey, Jaemin where did you get that ring? I thought you didn’t like rings.”    He focused his attention on you and looked at the ring on his pointer finger. He shrugged.    “Change of mind, I guess. And, uh, a gift from a friend— that’s where I got it.”    “From who?” you prodded, careful to keep your tone light and innocent so he wouldn’t catch onto your intentions.    “Uh… Mark, I think?”    You fixed him with an unbelieving stare and raised an eyebrow. Jaemin rolled his eyes and held up his hands.    “Fine, fine, you caught me. I stole it from that store at the mall, okay? No big deal.”    “No big deal? That’s a misdemeanor, Jaemin. Illegal stuff.” You snorted.    “So what? Are you gonna report me to the fucking police? Or maybe even that stupid hotline the school set up—what was it called? Anonymous Admission?” Jaemin said sharply, a cynical undertone to his words.    “I… no, I would never, it’s just… be careful okay? You might get into trouble, like serious trouble,” you demur. You could never report your crush, as wrong as it is, but you had literally exposed every secret, innocent to dirty, to each other. It was his choice… right?    “Sure,” Jaemin sarcastically said and checked his phone, clearly unbelieving of your warning.

   “Jaemin? Can I change the music?”    He let out a grunt, eyes still focused on the road in front of him. Jaemin had, surprisingly, agreed to give you a ride home in his shitty Toyota Corolla that was older than both of you. Its seats were worn and tearing at the seams, while the windows still required a manual cranking of the pump for it to go up or down. Hell, it even required a radio antenna to be screwed in to get the local stations to play, but it had unfortunately gone missing so you were stuck with the cd player.    As soon as he had given you a go-ahead, you had clicked open the glove compartment in search of your favorite Fall Out Boy album, Folie A Deux A MASTERPIECE. While digging through his crappy screamo music that you hated, something soft and plastic-y touched your hands. You grasped onto it and pulled it out.    There, innocently grasped between your forefinger and thumb, was a bag of heroin. 3 by 7 inches, filled to the brim with white powder and sealed with some tape.    “Jaemin?”    “What?”    “What the actual fuck is this?” you drew out angrily.    Jaemin took his gaze momentarily off the windshield and looked at the object in your hands.    “Oh, it’s just my fix for the week. I thought you were asking about the new Black Veil album I just got.”    You sputtered a bit at his nonchalance.    “This is fucking heroin! Jaemin I was fine with weed and your vape but there has gotta be limits, dude, and this is not in them!”    He rolled his eyes, which he seemed to be doing a lot of nowadays towards you.    “Lay off it, will you? Stop being such a hardass; it isn’t an attractive look.”    It stung a bit, not going to lie, hearing your crush say you weren’t attractive. “Well, I’m about to be hella ugly right now! Jaemin this isn’t fucking okay!”    He kept silent.    “This is the last straw! I’ve had it with your drugs and stealing and alcohol! You need to fucking stop or I’m gonna tell your mom!”    His eyes darted towards you, an angry light in them.    “You wouldn’t dare!”    “Yes, I fucking would! I’m your goddamn best friend!”    “Shut the fuck up and just butt out okay?    “I won’t!”    “Fuck off, y/n! You’re nagging at me for everything little fucking thing I do! I just wanna have some goddamn fun! Can you stop being annoying for like 1 fucking second and just let me be? God, you’re so irritating!” Jaemin gritted his teeth and ran a hand through his brown hair.    You had frozen, every argument your head fleeing like it had been sucked out by a vacuum. His words gripped your heart and squeezed and squeezed until it felt like you were choking. Tears gathered at the edge of your eyes but you stayed silent and looked down on your lap.    A few tense seconds later, you slam forward as his car suddenly jerks to a halt.    “Get out and leave me the fuck alone,” Jaemin spoke, his message delivered frostily. The bite and serious intent in his tone meant Jaemin was dead serious.    “Fine,” you whisper, as you slam the crappy car door shut and sprint to your front door,  restrained tears finally being let loose.

   Life was a bit less stressful, you thought when Jaemin wasn’t in it.    You weren’t constantly worried about whether he had gotten high or got blackout drunk somewhere, or whether he had stolen something. You weren’t worried about whether he crashed his car or whether he got home safely.    Also, on the plus side, you didn’t have to deal with the heartache of unrequited love. The time away from him let you focus more…    Who were you kidding?    You were always worried about Jaemin slumped unconscious in an alleyway or if he got caught by the police. You always wondered if he got home safely and whether he completed his bio assignment because he was failing that class and he could really use an A. You wanted him to be at home and safe and warm.    You completely loved Jaemin and it hurt like hell.    It felt a bit silly at times. Who were to say you were in love? You were just a high school sophomore; and those rarely worked out. And even so, why did you have a crush on a guy who was never going to love you back and never wanted you to do so?    Why, indeed.    The TV in the background buzzed like static in the recesses of your mind, your movements growing repetitive and robotic as you went through the motions of slicing your fruits. Nowadays you were always distracted, whether it be in class or in your bedroom or on the bus. Jaemin was like a fucking itch that couldn’t be scratched no matter how hard you tried.    Heavy knocks pounded on your front door, resonating through your empty house like gunshots. Your heartbeat sped up as you set down the knife and wipe your hands on your jeans. You flicked the dim kitchen light off and silenced the TV, and padded silently down the hallway to your door. You tiptoe to reach the eye hole and you see a figure in a white jacket and black skinny jeans slumped on the wall next to the doorway.    “Jaemin?” you whisper in disbelief.    “Y/n!” Jaemin slurs as he pushed himself off the brick wall.    “I missed youuuu,” Jaemin grins, a big, toothy open-mouthed smile that you hadn’t seen forever. It was like a hole in a beaver dam because memories and feelings suddenly poured out uncontrollably. You remember splashing him with water in your front yard, and 5 years old him smiling gleefully as he got you back for your prank. Rollercoasters and pillow forts and cringy bedroom karaoke sessions all came rushing to the forefront of your conscious, almost drowning you in melancholic nostalgia, but you quickly shake it off.    “Um, let’s go inside okay?” you said, worried about the neighbors complaining about the suspicious activity happening in your doorway.    “Yay! Pillow fort time!” he exclaimed deliriously as you pull him in by his arm.    “Yeah, yeah, fort time,” you assure as you guide him towards the guest bedroom.    He mumbled several incoherent things as you slowly dragged him through your house, the tone of his speech turning more miserable the longer it went on. He no longer sounded high, so you knew for sure he was drunk.    His head lolled on your shoulder so his forehead rested on your shoulder.    “W-what am I doin’? I dunno anymore, I dunno…” he mumbled.    You could hear him clearly now, his speech no longer the garbled mess it was from far away.    “Pills... so bad, but I… I wan’ more and stealin’ is fun and all bu’ it-it wear s off…”    Your heart breaks hearing his inner conflict.    “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you soothe, patting his back and rubbing it.    “I wan’ it ta stop, I wan’ it ta stop” he repeated even as you took off his denim jacket and Chuck Taylors.    When you properly tuck him and turn off the lights, a whisper catches your attention.    “I wan’ y/n…” Jaemin mumbles against the pillowcase.

   Usually, you would hit snooze on your alarm on the weekends but today you made sure to get up bright and early and on time. You padded on down to the kitchen and quickly whip up a heavy breakfast for Jaemin, who was sure to be hungry and hungover as soon as he woke up. Balancing the tray with both hands, you quietly kick open the door to the guest room.    Tangled in the patchwork quilt was your best friend (Ex bff? Crush? Who knew.), snoring quietly, his face relaxed and relieved of stress.    “Jaemin? Jaemin!”    The boy sleepily gets up, rubbing his head and tussling up his messy brown hair even more.    “Morning,” you hesitantly say, to which he hums in greeting to.    You set down the food carefully and give him some aspirin pills, which he downs as soon as he gets it.    “Do… Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask while giving him the spoon and fork.    He snatches them from your hands and snarls, “I don’t need your fucking pity.”    CRASH!    Concern quickly morphs into rage as you fling the orange juice glass in your hands at the wall above the headboard. It shatters into a million glass shards, orange juice splattering on the wall and pulp flying everywhere. The pent-up rage and anger you held for his treatment of not only you but at himself surfaced like fireworks. You were angry at him for disregarding your feelings at him, angry that Jaemin was an outright bastard; angry that he didn’t care.    “It’s not fucking pity, look at you! You’re destroying yourself and I’m forced to watch from the sidelines, Jaemin! What happens if I do leave you alone, huh? Will I watch the news one day and see you get arrested for stealing? Will I wake up to your mother crying that you overdosed on heroin and died in a goddamn parking lot? What the fuck will happen, Jaemin, huh?” you scream, throat raw by the end of your tirade.    He stared wide-eyed at you, very much awake. The hangover was shaken off quickly after his near death experience with the destroyed glass cup, and soberness quickly shot through him like an injection. Jaemin processed the words robotically, piecing them together in his mind but they still wouldn’t make sense.    “You’re… you’re my fucking best friend, Jaemin. Yeah, I know I'm uncool and we don’t have the same interests anymore but… fuck, let me love you.”    Too flustered to even comprehend what you had just unknowingly admitted, you turned back sharply on your heel and fled. You slam the door to your room shut, while Jaemin does nothing.    Your wide eyes filled with tears and heartbreaking confession lingered in Jaemin’s painfully, like when you stared at the sun too long and the light lingered in your vision too long.    He never wanted to hurt you. He loved you too much, and even if he knew you were never going to reciprocate his feelings, he still wanted you to be safe and happy. He never meant to explode on you in his car that one afternoon; too many things built up, his brother’s death and drugs and grades pounding at his head like a power drill. When everything was said and done, Jaemin slowly processed his words and almost crashed his car, angry at his stupidity. But like the coward he was, he never came back to you, even if he saw you in the hallways eternally sad and all he wanted was to hug you but he never came.    Enough was enough.    Jaemin ripped off the quilt, looked at his disgusting clothes still permeated with the smell of weed and alcohol, and banged on your door.    “Y/n! Let me in!”    No response.    “Y/n!”    Dead silence.    Jaemin kicked the wall in anger (leaving a slight scuff on it) and ran his hands through his hair.    “You know what, fine! I’ll just make my fucking stand out here,” Jaemin shouted and slumped against the door.    “I’m… sorry, okay? I should’ve… should’ve never talked to you like that. Even if I was angry and mad…  I should’ve never told you were annoying. At the time I couldn’t was everything was just piling up on me, you know? It’s not an excuse, but it’s just why.”    “I honest to god love skateboarding; I didn’t feel my brother’s... you know, so harshly when I was doing I. But I quickly realized that I got involved in the wrong crowd when Jeno handed me my first blunt in an abandoned parking lot. You… you were right but I was too stubborn to admit and I just ended up getting too deep, and I thought, hell, I might as well enjoy it. I didn’t have to care anymore, so everything was alright and I could just have fun with Mark and Renjun and everybody. I didn’t want to let go and I just ended up pushing you away, the person… the person I loved most.”    It was silent for a few moments until he could hear your sniffling and muffled footsteps. He stood up quickly as the door creaked open and your eyes peeked out from the crack. Jaemin pushed open the door and took you in his arms as you let out some sobs in his shoulder. He rubbed your back softly, and conveyed through his body language he was supremely sorry.    “I’m glad you let me in,” he spoke after a few seconds of silence. “If you weren’t I was going to scale up your wall to your window.”    You laughed and he could feel your body shaking with your laughter.    “You… you’re going to stop, right?” you asked.    “Yeah.”

   “For you.”

[love-for-ever-more]

I wanna feel love: Part 8

The heavy downpour had stopped, it was only drizzling now but the continuous rumble of the thunders made it evident that this was only temporary. Freddie put on his coat and his square-heeled boots, blew a loving kiss to John who was still sleeping on the couch, took his umbrella and minced down the street as if his tight, black, leather pants were a perfectly fitted catsuit, made especially for him.

"Like a cat that actually enjoys being wet.." he chuckled.

John had kept him in his arms all night long and he had felt safe and protected, after a long time. 'Is it possible..? Could John like..me? Could he be gay? He wouldn't stay there, all night if he didn't feel anything for me..would he? Why would he stay if he doesn't feel anything for me?' he asked himself again. He didn't know what to think.. 'John was there..with me. All night long.'

He had to do something.. 'My God! Did I get a crush on him already?' he wondered as he entered the first shop.

He had decided to go shopping, on the spur of the moment when he finished his bath. Some new, fancy clothes.. perhaps he could try and stimulate a long glance or a compliment from John.

He tried on several pairs of pants, before buying two of them, which both were skin tight but at different textiles and colors. He smiled contently at his image when he put on a pair of pants in a warm burgundy shade, velvet one and decided to buy it, at once. His smile grew bigger when he thought of John's look seeing him wear them. The second pair was made of black latex. "Is it too provocative? too slutty, dear?" Freddie asked a woman who was staring at him, but he needn't really care for her answer. He saw how gorgeously they brought out the athletic shape of his body so, naturally, he bought them.

He peacocked in front of the full-length mirrors to give a full view of his body to all customers, wearing each one of them just like a peacock that funs out its magnificent feathers when more people are around and he even made a small bow to thank the people for watching his special performance.

He still had to find out if John liked him not just as a very good friend but liked him- liked him...and he prayed his instinct was correct.

'Why did he get aroused if he isn't into me? ...into men?' he kept asking himself. 'Do I have to show him that I'm gay? Of course, I have to... somehow...show him. Or better, I have to tell him.' 'I also have to learn more about his relationship with Veronica... how are they getting along with each other?' 'Besides, why didn't he go to her place last night and stayed with me?' '..and...' he paused to swallow 'Why did he tell all those beautiful, amazing and sooo poetic words to me... if he doesn't feel anything for me? You don't speak like that to a friend... I couldn't imagine Bri or Rog talk to me, the way John did..' 'I didn't even thank him...for them' he sighed.

When Freddie left the shop, it had started raining again. He, nonetheless, chose to walk to the small Asian restaurant instead of getting a taxi. He had, recently, found out that walking in the rain was actually quite relaxing and invigorating to him -though he wouldn't dare leave his umbrella behind and ruin his hair-.

'Maybe I should come out to him after I ask him about his relationship and.. or before I ask?' he thought. 'Oh! maybe I'll ask Rog or Bri to ask him about Veronica.. after I come out to them, first.' 'What happens if he doesn't like me back and all this was a misunderstanding?' 'Maybe I have to come out to him and then... maybe he'll come out, too.'

Freddie shook his head.. too confused to keep his thoughts in order...

"I'll come out to him.." he sighed "and.. if he's gay.. I'll tell him that I like him. The real question is 'does he like me?' " he mumbled, as he slowed down his pace. A flicker of desire flashed across his face when he whispered again, "I like him... oh my God! Two days ago I wouldn't imagine of coming out.. and accept the fact that I like guys and now...I like him! now look at me!" he grinned. "A new me!" he laughed loud enough for an old man to hear and turn his head to stare at him. But Freddie didn't care... he put his umbrella down and clapped his hands twice to congratulate himself.

"Have a great day, dear!" he wished, heartily, giving a wide grin to the old man. He, then, picked up his umbrella and continued his walk.

He entered the restaurant and ordered a glass of water with some lemon. It was a 12:40 pm.

'It's amazing what a few drops of what we're longing for, can do to us... right Freddie? It only takes a moment of realization and everything can change so drastically..' his heart asked him.

But it wasn't just that... Freddie could now perceive John's interest, during the years they know each other. John always asked for Freddie's opinion, he was always considerate towards him and he always cared for Freddie's well-being. They never argued with each other except this one time when they had their first gig with John on board. Freddie had insisted on him wearing a "ridiculous outfit" as he had said and he refused to wear it. But in the end, John complied with Freddie's taste and... that was it. He never argued with Freddie again for any reason and he always supported him, even when he was being unreasonable, according to Brian.

Plus, he could now understand better why John was nervous when Freddie complimented his playing or his appearance or why he blushes when they sit next to each other and Freddie happens to touch his hand or his leg... "How could I be so blatantly stupid?" he groaned and took a sip from his drink... "How didn't I notice all that before?" he sighed in disbelief.

Of course, he could also remember the fact that John had never introduced them a girl as his girlfriend. Freddie had thought that he was too shy to ask a girl out... 'he had numerous chances to date any girl but he preferred to spend his nights at home..' he thought. 'Until I decided to play fucking Cupid and introduce Veronica to him...' he sighed again.

"Stupid!" he cursed under his breath and looked at his watch. It was 01:35 pm and John hadn't come. He asked to pay his bill, eager to return home.

Freddie opened the door, as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake John up in case he was still sleeping. But, he was greeted by an empty couch and much more to his disappointment by an empty house. The fire was put out long ago and it was rather cold in there.

He went up straight to his room to put on the tightest of his new pants, the latex one, determined to keep flirting with John. He paired them with a red t-shirt with a deep v-neck, sprayed himself with his cologne and got down to the sitting room. He took a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch to wait for him.

He was bored to death, he never really liked it when he was alone. He loved having friends around, laughing, discussing or playing games. He missed Roger and Brian as he couldn't stand being in an empty room. He turned on the radio and called some friends he hadn't seen or spoken to for a while. Then, he tried twice to put on the fire in the fireplace before a tiny flame appears and make him feel quite proud of his achievement. He took another beer and he decided to take another shower.

"John!" he exclaimed and sprang from his seat as soon as he heard the door open. "I've been worried for you, dear! Where have you been all-" he froze in his place when he saw Veronica about to enter the sitting room followed by a very happy John.

"Freddie, you seriously have to stop being so overprotective of my boyfriend!" Veronica laughed.

"I-I'm sorry... I didn't know you would meet Veronica" he mumbled and ducked his head out of embarrassment. "Of course, how silly of me..." he ended, giving a shy side smile. He felt his heart sink, by seeing them together. 'They were together... they spent the day together' Freddie thought and suddenly he felt his mood change.

"How are you? John told me you had a fever yesterday." she said as she took off her coat and passed it to John.

"I'm good now... Thanks." Freddie answered "John was kind enough to stay with me and help me" he said, smiling faintly at John, who was standing behind her.

"He is an angel, isn't he?" she smiled widely and turned to look at John.

Freddie nodded slightly, watching Veronica as she took John's hand in hers. A pang of jealousy spread inside him when he saw her kissing him tenderly on his lips. 'Is it worth trying to test John? Would any good come out of it?'  he wondered and wrinkled his nose. His eyes flicked from Veronica to John and back again. They were holding hands now as she was saying something that Freddie couldn't hear.

"...we had lunch together and then Johnny insisted on taking me for a walk around the city because it would be romantic... you know, with the rain and all" she said turning to Freddie again.

Freddie suddenly realized he has held his gaze too long on them "Oh! You had lunch together..." he repeated absent mindedly, scratching his forehead as he lowered his head once more.

"Yes! John called me this morning and he wanted to make up for standing me up yesterday so, we met soon after." Veronica said with a huge grin on her face as she took a seat on the couch, pulling John from his hand to sit next to her.

Freddie stepped away from the couch. He stood beside the fireplace, grabbing a magazine from a nearby shelf. He started flipping through the pages without actually paying attention to their content or listening to Veronica.

He had to try and hide his disappointment... This wasn't what he had imagined. 'Was I wrong?' he wondered again. 'Was everything a misunderstanding?' his lips were pressed together in a firm line as his mind kept asking the same questions over and over again.

"Freddie?" John's voice made him blink.

"Yes..." he muttered.

"Where are you?" John asked and looked up to him. "are you alright?"

"I... I was thinking of ... something" Freddie said, throwing the mag on the floor. He lit up a cigarette and grabbed his beer from the coffee table. He emptied the bottle and rushed to the kitchen, returning with another one in his hand. "It took me half an hour to put on the fucking fire... and now I'm burning..." he said all of a sudden, tossing his hair. He felt the latex pants stuck on his body. He was sweating and he was jealous. 'Will anything go according to my fucking plan?' he thought and sighed. He glanced at John who was sitting there looking at him without saying anything. "Veronica, dear" he breathed in "what were you saying?

"Umm.. I was just saying that we didn't realise that the time passed so quickly... we...we had a very nice time.." Veronica said with eyes gleaming of satisfaction having John smiling at her.

"How nice..." Freddie mumbled with his cheeks sucked in as he started making some air with the magazine, on his face.

"Freddie, do you want me to open the window?" John asked, turning his head and staring at Freddie.

"Yeah.. thank you" Freddie looked at him and smiled shyly, happy to see that John's attention wasn't turned one hundred percent to Veronica. He needed to know that he wasn't invisible to John.

"So, how did you spend your day?" he asked and stood next to him.

"I went... for a walk too."

"Just for a walk?" John chuckled and raised his eyebrows.

Freddie licked his lips nervously "Yeah! I didn't meet anyone." he assured him and shook his head, anxious to see if John had believed him.

"Ok..." John laughed and turned to close the window. Freddie didn't understand if John believed him or not.

"Why don't you call Mary to join us? We can have dinner together and... since John asked me to spend the night here, you won't be alone, Freddie." Veronica asked.

Before either of them got to answer, she had gotten up and pulled John in for a passionate kiss. She pinned him against the window and planted her lips on his.

Freddie's eyes widened as he was caught off guard. He suddenly felt like he was gonna blew up. How was it possible to be so jealous of Veronica from one day to another? His feet froze on the ground and he felt his stomach turn into a knot. 'Oh God, I'm in love with John!' he realized and blinked his eyes. And John was with someone else. His breath stuck in his throat and his lips went dry. He fixed his stare on John who seemed to be taken by surprise, too, by Veronica's action.

And then John did something that left Freddie quite speechless. He slightly, turned his body so he could have Freddie right across him, opened his eyes and took a full view of him, from head to toes, while Veronica was clenching her lips on his.

He saw John pause his stare on his tight pants, for a moment and then let them wander on his perfectly-shaped body. Freddie parted his lips to breath. A naughty smirk appeared on his face as he tilted his head slightly up.

The look John gave him was enough to raise Freddie's hopes again. The longing look on John's eyes seemed so familiar to Freddie -he could remember all those times when John looked at him with such eyes- and yet it felt so new and fresh and stimulating at the same time...

"Did I provoke that ?"  Freddie's eyes beamed "it feels so good..." He took a step back and leaned his body on the side of the armchair, without drawing his eyes from John's.

"Hey...ok" he heard him babble against Veronica's mouth, trying to escape from her grasp. When he finally did so, he took a step to the side.

"Um yeah.. sorry Freddie" she said out of breath and turned to face him. "I guess...I got carried away"

"Hm? No no. It's...fine, dear." Freddie mumbled and cast a glance at John as his face flushed red. His eyes were gleaming. 'I can still test him' he thought. 'I can.'

John cleared his throat, "I was thinking of making pasta with Mexican sauce, Freddie, would you like to join us?"

"Sure..." he shrugged his shoulders, "I'm starving!"

"Have you eaten anything for lunch?"

"Um..." I only had a couple of beers or maybe more.." he said and started giggling. "I guess I forgot-"

"You should take more care of yourself, besides you didn't need to go out today..." John said but he didn't mean it as a rebuke.

"I-I had to" Freddie said quietly, as he looked down letting his hair cover the sly smirk that appeared on his face. He was enjoying John's attention. He had missed it, actually. Yesterday, he had tasted a piece of it and now he was craving for more.

"Aren't you a sweetheart?" Veronica interrupted again, pinching John's cheeks with his fingers. "You are so protective with him!" she laughed. "You should've listened to him, Freddie, he kept talking about you all day!" she said again and kissed his cheek. "Freddie this, Freddie that..."

"Vera!" John laughed shyly as he glanced at Freddie. The singer glanced back at the same time, pressing his lips together as he tried to hide his grin. "Anyway..." he said, "let's make dinner".

Freddie sat comfortably on the armchair, pleased with what he had heard from Veronica. John was talking about him when he was with her. Plus, he eyed him that way. "Nice to know"  he chuckled.

"John! I haven't cleaned the kitchen" he called.

John laughed. "Yes I can see that!" he called back, "You can do it now!"

"Oh well... ok" he sighed, looking at Veronica. "Would you care to help me, then? we'll finish earlier together... or it'll take me a year!" he said, and got up and strutting to the kitchen. He stood at the door and glanced back at Veronica, "why don't you watch some t.v. dear? we'll be over soon" and with that, he closed the door behind him.

He leaned his back on the fridge, looking around. He could still, test John. There was hope. John was standing near the sink holding out the apron for him.

"So," Freddie began tilting his head slightly to the right and looking at John through heavy leaded lashes. His heart was biting fast and he was feeling a bit dizzy due to the beers he had drunk "you had a nice day,  as I heard" he said and hiccuped, "and Veronica is staying here tonight."

"Um yeah, it was good" John mumbled and turned to the sink. He wore the apron without thinking about it and started to do the dishes.

Freddie smiled widely and walked slowly to John. He sat on the counter, crossing his legs and looking at John with a smirk on his face. 'he didn't answer the second part...' he thought. He imagined himself pin John against the counter and licked his lips sensually. "And... how are things between you two, dear?" he asked, flashing him a grin.

John turned his head to him. "We're good, we're fine" he said sternly and turned his head again.

Freddie suppressed a smile and decided to push a little further. "She looks infatuated with you, I can tell. But what about you? are you in love with her?" he asked, letting another hiccup.

"Freddie are you drunk?" John asked back and dried his hands with a towel. "How many beers have you had?"

Freddie giggled. "Not many" he said, throwing his head back as he let a deep sigh.

"Is everything ok?" John asked when he saw Freddie stare at the floor, looking a bit sullen himself, all of a sudden. He could sense that something was bothering him and he didn't like it.

Freddie dismissed his question with a wave of his hand and got up from his position. He stretched his body, pulling his t-shirt a little up to rub his stomach with his right hand. "I'm starving!" he said and opened his eyes to see John staring at his hand touching his body.

John averted his eyes from Freddie and took a step back, biting his lip.

"Perhaps you want to go back to your girlfriend until I clean the floor?" Freddie said with a side smirk.

"Um no it's fine."

"Then perhaps you want a beer?"

"Yeah, why not?"

He took two beers from the fridge and opened them sitting on the counter again.

John started swiping the floor.

"Quite a mess down here" he joked and heard Freddie giggle again.

"Imagine what would happen if I tried to make pasta..." he laughed. Oh! There's one over there."  Freddie pointed with his finger somewhere on the floor.

"Where?"

Freddie got up and walked to the opposite corner. He bent forward, pushing his chubby butt up with grace and picked up a forgotten kernel. "Here!" he smiled at John. You missed this one." He placed the kernel on John's hand with a naughty smile.

John looked him up from head to toes again, lustfully just like some minutes ago. "Why did you leave without waking me up?" he asked without knowing why.

"Why didn't you join me?" Freddie asked back as if he hadn't heard of John's question.

He moved a step closer and stopped right in front of John, tilting his head slightly back keeping his lips partly open. He felt John tense up but he didn't move from his position. 'Kiss me...' Freddie wished and let his hand brush on John's hand, for an instance.

They stayed there, in silence, feeling the tension between them as they stared at each other, breathing heavily. John's mind searched for an hint at what Freddie meant with his question but he couldn't understand and having Freddie so close to him, made his mind stop working. He had to swallow hard when he felt Freddie's hand touching his own and he was afraid that if he stayed there, some inches away from him, Freddie would sense his uneasiness. He also had to fight his growing erection. 'Sweet Lord' John mumbled under his breath. Yet John didn't move back.

He stayed there, breathing hard, until "Veronica is waiting for you..." Freddie said suddenly, with a sly look and took a small step back.

John blinked his eyes and scratched the back of his head nervously. "Yeah.. I'll be there a minute." he said "The dinner will be ready shortly."

Freddie walked slowly to the door.

"Where did you go this morning?" John asked and grabbed Freddie's hand to stop him.

"I...I had some shopping to do" Freddie looked back and smiled.

"Oh yeah? What for?" John asked again and Freddie's smile turned into a grin when John fixed his eyes at the lower part of his body.

'So...he did notice...' Freddie thought. "Well..." he licked his lips and left the room, leaving John staring.

[aprilskyforever]

Henny ranks Eurovision 2018 (fifth and final edition, after the contest)

I still can’t believe it happened, that I actually was there. In the arena. I saw 34 of the 43 acts live, from one distance or another. 10 of them from both. Let me tell you this first: Gabe told me before the trip that all acts would be better live, and he was right. Live, even Russia and San Marino were good. But in this final ranking, I’ve taken all aspects in concern: studio before the show, preparties, sound and show live in the arena, sound and show on tv. And for some, it differs a lot between the factors. But i’ll get to that in the comments for each individual song. Now, let’s go!

1 Italy. My winner since the beginning, and it remained that way. I just feel too strongly for these two men and their song to let them be passed by someone else. I can’t do that. Even if Cyprus beats them in staging. Non Mi Avete Fatto Niente never fails to make me Feel stuff, it hits me right in my heart, and Ermal’s voice is like honey and a magnificent contrast to Fabrizio’s raspy tune. 2 Cyprus (+3). When the song was released I didn’t fully believe in it, due to the heavy autotune on the studio version. But I always thought, if Eleni can pull this off live, this can be really dangerous. She never got to prove her talent until the actual broadcast, and I don’t gamble, but after semi 1 I would have placed my bets on her. Flawless staging (my only complaint is that it was tad bit too much choreography in the first verse), Sacha proves once again what a pro she is. And Eleni, what a queen she is! Completely owning the stage. I stand in awe. 3 Czech Republic. I’m forever impressed by and soft for this man. Brilliant staging - when he did the jumps and flips in the end I completely lost it, I was blown away. Very slick staging and performance, and the song always makes me want to dance. Please, Czech TV, tell me that this wasn’t a once in a lifetime thing! 4 Ukraine (-2). Now, I’ll be honest. Albeit a cool staging, the song doesn’t quite hit me live as it does in studio. It might be that I don’t like Mélovin’s styling, that there’s too much going on on stage, that the bass isn’t as heave as it should be... who knows. I love him and I love the song, but there was just Something missing.   5 Sweden (-1). My man! You made me be proud of my country again! It’s funny, because I’ve never really liked Benji before, even if I’ve known about him since... well 2006? But there’s something about the song, his voice and moves, and the neon bed that makes me soften. Being so far behind in televote was rather painful, I must admit that. 6 Germany (+5). This made me tear up when I saw it in the arena. I haven’t lost my father or anything, but this was simply beautiful and Michael filled it with so much emotion, it was so impressive and it hit me right in the heart on an Italy level. It really deserved its high placing. 7 Israel (+8). She really knew how to get the party started. I’ll be honest and say it’s really not my favourite song and I’ve grown rather tired of it, but it will forever be associated with the moment on Praca do Commercio when Gabe realized it had won, the happiness on his face. And the singing along, how we waved the flag, how we danced, how everyone was looking at us. In that moment, I absolutely loved it.  8 Austria. One of the best songs of the year, without a doubt. In one way I understand why it did so well with the juries, it really is that kind of song, however, live, it didn’t really feel that... exciting? Tickling? In a way that a winner does. Doesn’t really hits your most inner core you know? 9 Denmark (+3). This song climbing is all thanks to the audience, to be honest. They made this song grow. All aboard the viking ship! Or as we say up here, alle man ombord! 10 Finland (-4). Still also one of my favourites this year in terms of song only, the Debs are one brilliant duo. Staging was cool, although it was sort of missing a red thread? It felt a little messy? But I still loved it. 11 Moldova (-2). Oh Julija, I’m so sorry to not fit them into the top 10! I promise I still love them, I love the staging, and I’m weak for the song. Only thing throwing me off is the mixing live, the levels don’t feel just right. 12 Norway (+4). This was the first song I heard live and I’m still weak for it. Really a great party starter. Rybak may not be very helpful with song writing tips, but he sure knows how to deliver a performance and how to charm an audience. 13 Switzerland (-6). Oh my darlings, my darlings I’m so sorry... I really wished I could have seen this in the final. I’ll forever be weak for Coco. 14 Hungary (+7). This year’s big grower! If I’m not mistaken, it started out as my dead last because heavy metal isn’t my genre at all. But then I actually gave the song a chance. And in the arena, good lord help me how good it was. On TV, not as much, but this was absolutely one of the coolest acts to see live. 15 Albania (+2). I adore him, I adore the staging for this, I adore the intro of the song. It sounds so promising and always puts me in a good mood, makes me anticipate something. The only bad thing is the chorus, that thing I’m anticipating, it never really comes you know? But he’s Turt’s favourite and meeting him will forever have a place in my heart. 16 Ireland (+4). I’m forever grateful to whoever came up with the idea to make the music video come alive on stage. It fits so perfectly and lifts the song to sky high levels.   17 Bulgaria (-3). It’s Solid. That’s what I’ve always said. Sounds like Skeletons, but where Skeletons is wandering in an eerie forest with a slight feeling of anxiety, yet anticipation, Bones is being more sure of what’s going on, it’s walking with a steady pace on a wide path, not being afraid of what the eerie forest hides.  18 Australia. Oh, she always makes me so happy, and so does the song. But the chorus still sounds like a bridge, and the dancing felt... not really right, I felt she was too alone on stage. Live, however, this was absolutely stunning. 19 France (-9). This is a sleek song, I do like the sound of it, but by now it has honestly become a bit boring. And I’m sorry. 20 Slovenia (+9). Her charisma, choreography and staging really made up for the underwhelming beat in the chorus that had always put me off before. Now, I didn’t mind it. Also a really good live song. 21 Portugal (-8). Everytime I hear this song, I still wait for it to take off fo real, and it never does. It’s so beautiful, it keeps growing, but it never blooms into the full garden that I expect. And that’s a shame. 22 Latvia (+2). Where Croatia did it wrong, Latvia did it right, in a way. Good angles, good song, she made it work by being alone on stage. Maybe she was a bit too stiff and choreographed though. 23 Belarus (-4). You know, I don’t mind the rose, nor do I mind the song at all. His whole performance was alright, but somewhere I understand why I didn’t qualify.  24 Montenegro (+2). Oh this sweet man! The gift that keeps on giving. He deserved better. 25 Netherlands (+15). This song is such a water divider for me. I’ve grown tired of it and him, but then when I heard it live and saw him on TV it actually wasn’t that bad? It’s like I couldn’t resist it?  26 Greece (-1). This is the best Greece has sent since... 2014. Yeah. But the semi was too strong and I’m honestly happy it stayed where it did. However I’m not happy with the fact that This Is Love qualified last year, and this didn’t. But that’s just how it be sometimes. 27 Spain (+6). When 5000 Spanish fans sing along, you can’t resist it yourself. It’s rather sweet, to be honest. 28 Belgium (-1). Whoever staged and styled this number must be fired asap. Sennek looked like a ghost from a prison cell instead of the elvish and sophosticated lady I got to know in the video. Shame on such a beautiful song. 29 Lithuania (+1). Sure, it’s sweet, but it never hit me like it seemed to do to others.  30 Azerbaijan (-8). It felt... plastic. Detached. Without sincereness, if that’s even a word. But do you get what I mean? 31 Armenia. Beautiful, but it just did nothing for me. 32 Estonia. No, I don’t deny talent and I will recognize and admit the staging was stunning. But it dosen’t make up for the fact that I’ve never liked the song itself, and knowing the lyrics sound ridiculous to someone who speaks Italian, it just adds to it. 33 United Kingdom (+6). Also irresistable live! SuRie really is a very talented artist who deserves a much, much better song that Storm. 34 Poland (-11). I’ve always thought this was alright and it has always put me in a good mood, but after seeing it on TV I cringed a lot, Lukas vocals were far from where they should have been and so was his confidence. And Gromee himself? He felt very awkward. Like a dad who crashes his teenage girls birthday disco to dance along and embarrasses his daughter beyond limits. I shrug, in a bad way. 35 Serbia. This song is a bit all over the place and that really does put me off. Like it’s not... bad, but it doesn’t convince me. 36 Romania (-2). Solid, like Bulgaria, but far from as interesting. And what on earth was that staging?  37 Malta (+1). Cool staging, but I’ve never liked the song and I probably never will. 38 Georgia (-10). Sure it’s beautiful, but this song being in Eurovision just feels so... off? And the staging was so uninteresting. 39 Croatia (-3). Franka, darling, why did you have to be so attached to your mic stand? And being alone on stage? Bad choice. Didn’t help to make the song interesting like it should. 40 Iceland (+1). Oh my boy, my sweet sweet boy... you, like SuRie, really deserved a better song. Please come back with that ok? 41 San Marino (+2). So the song is horrible, but live this was actually kinda fun. Not to mention I love the robots with their signs. Amazing. 42 FYR Macedonia (-5). Man... Macedonia disappoints with staging and styling again. Can someone fire whoever is in charge already? My barbara dex winner by a mile, and I never liked the song to begin with either. 43 Russia (-1). You know, live it didn’t sound so bad. But on TV? Good lord help me. And lord help Yulia. Shame on Russian TV for treating her like this.

And there you have it! I had an absolute blast this season and it will, for very obvious reasons, always have a special place in my heart. Now set sail, and cross the Mediterranian, and we’ll see you again Israel!